Stay Strong Britannia
by Simply A Writer
Summary: Arthur stumbles home in the middle of the night, heavily wounded and completely incoherent. Who is responsible for the state of the youngest of the Kirkland siblings and how will the others respond when they figure out who the assailant was? Rated T to be safe - my mind may go on a magical adventure!
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hey guys! If you've been reading Family Bond first, thank you! Second, due to a mass attack of Drama coursework due for... TODAY! along with a music perfomance to prepare for and an epileptic dog keping you awake all night... Yeah, I'm still finishing off the next chapter (mainly because I'm picky and I refuse to post it until it's up to my usual standards, however low they may be...) **

**Anyway, to say sorry and because a friend of mine suggested I post the first little bit of this story to see what you guys think, I present to you the replacement story for the week! I will either update Family Bond before next Wednesday, or do a double on the day. Don't kill me! X3 **

**Moing onwards, I hope you enjoy.**

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Arthur Kirkland stumbled into his house, one hand on the wall for support as the other gripped the open wound at his side. His eyes were glazed over; his hazy vision and pain numbed mind stopping him from noticing the lights glowing from his sitting room and the gasp of shock that followed him through to his kitchen. The bloodied blonde barely made it half way to his medical cabinet however, before his legs gave out, unmercifully dropping him onto his injured side. A feeble cry escaped his cracked lips. Without the strength to get up, Arthur realized he was content to lie on the floor. His body shook as pain coursed through his tired limbs and a small sob escaped his lips. Something touched his arm, but in his state, Arthur hardly recognized the contact before slipping into a peaceful oblivion.

Patrick Kirkland, also known as Northern Ireland had been sat in Arthur's lounge, waiting patiently for his younger brother to return home from whatever he was doing. Come to think of it, wasn't Artie taking a while? Surely, his little brother the ever eloquent gentleman wouldn't forget the fact that he was coming to visit tonight, would he? The Irishman's patience was soon rewarded in the form of the front door slamming open…

Shit, he thought to himself. Artie never slammed doors: something was wrong. Arthur staggered past the door to the lounge towards the kitchen, blood seeping through his fingers and staining the left side of his battered green military suit.

"Artie," Patrick dashed after him, now genuinely concerned: what the hell had happened? He rounded the doorframe only to almost trip over his sibling.

"Arthur," he tried, shaking him gently: no response. Patrick felt his heart tear a little as the blonde shook, letting out a couple of quiet sobs before slipping into a state of unconsciousness. No, this was bad… he set about, gathering bandages, a needle and antiseptic and quickly set to work on his brother.

After twenty of the hardest minutes Northern Ireland could ever remember, England's wound had been treated and the blonde was currently nestled in his queen sized bed upstairs with his torso wrapped in bandages. The Irishman however, had a scrubbing brush in hand and was desperately trying to cleanse the floor of it crimson topcoat whilst resisting the urge to vomit. As a nation, Northern Ireland was strong, but Patrick Kirkland was a gentle (if not slightly mischievous) soul; it went against his cheerful and somewhat childish personality to hurt, maim or kill… without reason anyway. Soon, he was pulled into the back and forth motion of trying to scrub Arthur's blood off the floor – Patrick was just glad it was tiles.

He had no idea how long he'd been scrubbing for before a pair gentle hands fell on his shoulders. Instinctively, he jerked away, throwing his brush at their owner and scrambling back into a corner as it growled irritably.

"Paddy," something tapped his cheek and Patrick blinked, forcing his eyes to refocus; what was once a blur of colors slowly became his older brother, Scotland kneeling down in front of him with a light scowl on his features.

"A-Alba," Patrick stammered, using his brother's old nickname. "I-I tried, the blood… cleaning and Artie and…"

"Hey," Scotland shushed him, running a broad hand through his brother's auburn hair. "You did great lad, just great."

"I-is Artie…" he looked up with pleading clover green eyes.

"He's fine," the Scotsman assured him softly. "Like I said, you did a good job. Much longer and he probably would've snuffed it." Patrick opened his mouth to speak, but it came out was a strangled sob, followed by another, each one wracking his slight frame as it tore its way from his throat. "Alright, up." Scotland yanked the now sobbing man to his feet and all but pulled him out of the kitchen, careful not to let him see the pool of red still marring the pale tiles.

Iain led him into the sitting room, the Scotsman's firm grip the only thing keeping the younger nation on his feet. He hastily deposited Paddy on the sofa as the Irishman tried desperately to wipe the tears off his face only to have them replaced by new ones just as quickly. A small bin was shoved into his hands by Scotland before the redhead strode off towards the kitchen.

"W-wait," Patrick hiccupped, teary eyes beseeching. "Don't go…" Scotland gave him a blank look before turning on his heel and leaving the room. Patrick sobbed into his bin, feeling lonely and dejected. He choked suddenly, gagging on his own breath as his tired body trembled. His stomach lurched before turning itself inside out and flinging its contents into the bin Scotland had given him a few moments ago. Said Scot soon returned, setting a glass of water down on Arthur's small coffee table, seemingly content to rub calming circles into his younger brother's back until he was finished. Northern Ireland heaved a couple more times, spitting out the last few dregs. Scotland took the bin and passed him the water.

"Rinse and spit." The auburn haired male did as he was told, grateful to be rid of the lingering taste of bile at the back of his throat. "Now stop your cry you wee bairn, it's alright." Scotland pulled his younger brother across the sofa so his head was resting on his chest.

"A-Alba," Patrick sniffed, grabbing a handful of Scotland's shirt as he buried his face in the soft material. "I… I was so scared, I-I didn't know I just… I just did, I…"

"Hey," Scotland hushed, running his long fingers through Northern Ireland's scruffy auburn locks. "Hey, hey, it's fine lad. Shush, just let it all out. Everyone's safe now, it's alright." Patrick's sobs ceased for a moment before he errupted into full blown screams, clinging to his brother like a lifeline. The two of the sat there, Scotland muttering soothing words, waiting for his frantic sibling to calm down. Slowly, Patrick's heart-wrenching screams of anguish died down into erratic sobs, slowly diminishig into the odd hiccup before his breathing evened out. Scotland glanced down, a small smile gracing his features, planting a soft kiss on his sleeping brother's forehead.

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**A/N: Feedback time! Would you like for me to continue with this story also? If I do, it will most likely update on a Sunday, just to give me time to proof read both chapters before I post them. **

**Oh, just probably not this Sunday! I'm off to the London MCM Expo on Saturday and I probably won't be alive again until Monday afternoon! **

**Ps. I'm going as Canada! Provided I can find my wig... ^w^**

**Peace times, Simply. x**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Hi guys! Turns out I'm alive :D I had my anime convention yesterday and I got to do some shipping with Prussia, America, Britain France and Russia (The latter wasn't entirely volutary, but meh) So much Yaoi XD **

**Anyway, since 75% of my feedback was extremely positive (Thank you so much guys) I'm posting the next chunk of the story. **

**A huge thanks to all who read, whether you review or not and sorry, but I've had a little bit of a whinge at the end to clear up a few characterisation issues.**

* * *

When Iain was certain that Patrick wouldn't wake up, he gently slipped out from underneath him, laying him down on the couch and draping a blanket across his slumbering form. He quietly walked upstairs to check on Arthur and Dylan, leaving Patrick to sleep soundly on the couch.

"How is he," Iain asked, coming to stand beside his second youngest sibling.

"He's got a mild fever. It's a lot lower than earlier, but it might still be a problem," Dylan sighed, resting his head in his hands. "He's recovering, but it might take a little longer with the economic slump at the minute but he'll be fine in a month at the most. How's Patrick?"

"Shaken," the Scotsman admitted sadly. "Instinct took over in the initial treatment, but when he got to cleaning up after, it all had time to sink in and he broke down."

"I can't blame him," Dylan muttered softly. "I think I'd have done the same in his position; it couldn't have been easy to see… oh Arthur." The Welshman gave a small sniff and it was all Iain needed.

"Come on," he gripped his younger brother's shoulder, pulling him towards the door. "I don't need you falling apart on me too; you need to rest, you can come back after a few winks."

"Wait," Dylan stopped, turning to look at Iain. "I… I want to stay with him." Iain studied the disheveled face of his brother.

"Fine," Iain conceded, leading Dylan back across the room. "You can sleep in here. I'll be keeping an eye on the pair of you – if you need me, I'm right here."

"Thanks," he whispered, giving his oldest brother a quick hug before kicking off his shoes and climbing into the other side of Arthur's bed.

Iain sat by Arthur's bed, quietly watching his two youngest brothers sleep peacefully, silently vowing to make sure whoever did this would pay, dearly. No one, absolutely nobody, got away with harming one of the British countries; repercussions would follow and when the five of them worked together, their wrath was something to fear worldwide.

* * *

A few hours later, Arthur began to stir. Acid green eyes focused on the mess of blonde hair, waiting to see if the Brit would wake, drinking in every tiny movement as his anticipation built. Arthur suddenly sat bolt upright, a hiss of pain passing his lips as he agitated his bandaged abdomen. Iain reached over, placing a guiding hand on his brother's shoulder, hoping to get him to lie back down. Emerald green orbs, riddled with panic, darted to meet his gaze.

"Hush wee one," Iain said softly, shifting closer as he started to run his broad calloused hand up and down his brother's back. "It's alright, it's only me."

"Iain," Arthur frowned in confusion. "What're you doing here?"

"Not too loud lad," the Scotsman told him softly. "You don't want to wake Dylan, the boy's knackered."

"D-Dylan too," Arthur stammered, glancing over to the sleeping form of his brother occupying the other half of his bed before bringing his attention back to Iain. "Why are you all here… What on earth happened?" he sighed groggily, sinking back into his pillows.

"We were hoping you could tell us that lad," Iain replied, bringing his hand back to rest his elbows on his knees. "All of a sudden, Dylan and I get a text from Pad telling us you're half dead and we come dashing down here in the middle of the night to find you wrapped up and in bed and Paddy having a breakdown in your kitchen." Arthur's eye grew wide as he realized what must've gone on whilst he was sleeping.

"Patrick," Arthur shot his brother a pleading look. "Is… is he alright? Please, tell me. How bad was it?"

"He's fine," he reached forward to stroke his little brother's unruly blonde hair. "Seeing you like that was a big shock, he's still not sure how to handle these sorts of situations."

"How long did it take to calm him down," Arthur closed his eyes, leaning into the gentle touch.

"About two hours," a small tear leaked out from beneath Arthur's eyelid, Iain wiped it away with his thumb. "Don't you start causing yourself grief over this, it's not your fault. Just tell me, what happened to you lad?"

"I…," he paused to think. "I went to meet Matthew… Oh God, Iain, where's Matthew?"

"What? How should I know," the redhead asked, baffled. "Why, what's wrong?" he added, turning serious when he saws the genuine fear in his brother's eyes.

"We… we went out to the little café just down the street from here," Arthur said slowly, only the slight tremor in his shoulders giving away his building anxiety. "It got dark out before we finished and Matthew offered to drive me home…" he trailed off, his breath hitching slightly. Iain shifted forwards in his chair, his knees hitting the side of Arthur's bed as he wrapped a large hand around his brother's small, slender fingers.

"Arthur," Iain whispered, rubbing the back of Arthur's hand with his thumb, noting the warmth of his skin. "What happened next, how did you end up like this?"

"We w-walked out to his car," Arthur struggled through the tears now starting to flow down his cheeks, his erratic breath making him harder to understand. "When we g-got to t-the back… th-three m-men jumped us…" Arthur dissolved into quiet sobs. "I-I should've h-helped him… I s-should've stayed… I-,"

"Calm down," Iain said firmly, taking Arthur's chin in his free hand, forcing the blonde to look at him. "Look at yourself Arthur, you know damn fine that you couldn't have helped in a situation like that in this state. Now, you said it was the coffee shop down the road?" – Arthur nodded – "Then you get some rest, I'll go and see if I can find him."

"Y-you promise," the Englishman whispered, reminding his brother so much of the days when the five of them used to be close. Iain relased Arthur's chin, carefully brushing the moisture of the younger nation's cheeks.

"Aye lad, I promise."

* * *

**Ps. There was some confusion towards my portrayal of Northern Ireland. I would like to point out that the Northern part of the good old Emerald Isle never actually had any conflict with the rest of Britain; it was in fact the site of the majority of the fighting during the war between England and Ireland. As such, I think Patrick Kirkland, being the personification of Northern Ireland, would be adverse to conflict and would prefer if his family just got along with one another. Due to his childish nature, derived from that fact that he's only been apart from Ireland for a few decades, I think seeing his favourite brother in the state that he did would be too much for our dear little Paddy. I'll add a character key for you to make it a little easier. I've put them in what I say is age order but, this doesn't detremine maturity in my mind. **

**Scotland - Iain Kirkland**

**Ireland - Molly Kirkland (Yep, female! She's not here yet, but watch out when she is!)**

**Northern Ireland - Patrick Kirkland**

**Wales - Dylan Kirkland**

**England - Arthur Kirkland**

**Sorry again, but I have a tendancy to get a little pissy whe it comes to the Celtic nations. I'll blame my Scottish blood, but I have knocked out the teeth of a Geography student at my school for saying that Ireland and Northern Ireland were the same thing, Canada is an American state and Africa is a country... **

**Read, Review, send me some love, pick out an issue you have and I'll be happy to discuss it with you. **

**With love,**

**Simply x x **


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Howdy folks! Thanks to who're actually reading this and a massive thabks to everyone who reviewed! Here's chapter three and we're introducing some more characters! **

**Enjoy!**

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Finding the young Canadian didn't prove too difficult – Iain had gone to the small café that Arthur had specified, finding his nephew's car and a small patch of blood on the floor. He strode into the small building, shocking the wrinkled old man behind the counter.

"Hello there young man," the lines in his face deepened as he smiled. "Not often I get folks around this early. How can I help you?"

"I'm looking for my nephew," Iain supplied, feigning ignorance to any knowledge of his whereabouts. "He told me he'd be coming here to catch up with my wee broth, but he never came home last night. I was hoping you'd seen him."

"Well, what did he look like," the shopkeeper asked, bustling away as he prepared for his usual morning rush. "If the fellow was anything like you, I think I'd remember him no problem?" he wheezed out a raspy chuckle.

"Oh, you'd know him," Iain smiled with him, allowing himself a slight reprieve from the stress slowly accumulating around his family. "He's a couple inches shorter than me, shoulder length blonde hair, Canadian… ring any bells?"

"I think I might've had an American in last night," the old man sighed thoughtfully. "Although, you've described him perfectly, so I think he's your man. Did he come here with a short tempered gentleman with rather large eyebrows?"

"That's my brother," Iain exclaimed. "Do you know where they went?"

"I'm not sure about… your brother was it?" he muttered, thinking back to the night before. "But the American lad; I had him rushed off in an ambulance late last night… I think they took him to the private hospital down the road."

"Thanks!"

* * *

Iain was out the door in a flash, all but leaping into his car and kicking it into gear as he flew down the street to the hospital the old shop keeper had mentioned. When he arrived at the hospital, he was greeted by the sight of a young American blonde trying to wrestle his way away from seven security guards, yelling a colorful string of insults at all of them. Iain strode in, stubbing his cigarette by the door.

"Alfred," he bellowed, enjoying the way the boisterous nation flinched and swiftly shut his mouth. "What the hell do you think you're doing you eejit?"

"U-Uncle Iain," Alfred stammered, making no move to break free of the guards. "Why are you here?"

"Better question lad," the Scotsman shot back, gripping the sleeve of his bomber jacket as he shooed the guards away. "Why are you here – what brings you all the way to a British hospital, surely not the urge to wrestle with some suits?"

"They've got Mattie here," Alfred responded, suddenly completely serious. "They brought him in last night and they won't let me see him."

"Which room is he in?"

"I don't know; they won't talk to me…"

You," Iain marched up to the nurse behind the front desk, America in tow, a dark glare set on his features. "Matthew Williams, which room is he in?"

"I'm sorry sir," she drawled, her monotonous tone and air of condescension irking the pair before her. "Only family may visit him right now and I doubt the three of you are related."

"He's my nephew you daft broad," Iain growled at her, ignoring the offended look on her face. "Now, tell me which room he's in or so help me I with tear this building apart looking for him."

"I'm sure there are a few patients in here that wouldn't cope too well with a couple of strangers bursting into their rooms," Alfred added nonchalantly, a mischievous glint in his sapphire eyes. "It'd be a shame to set back their recovery process…"

"Sir," the nurse spoke quickly, trying to keep their attention. "I'm sorry, but I cannot tell you which room Mr. Williams is in unless I can verify that you two are indeed family."

"The lad is 19 years old, born July 1st, six feet tall; Canadian has shoulder length blonde hair and violet eyes," Iain reeled off coolly, enjoying the way the arrogant woman squirmed. "Check his profile."

The nurse shot him a dirty look before typing into her computer to bring up Matthew's personal medical profile.

"Yes, yes," she muttered, dark eyes scanning the screen. "Ah, it seems Mr. Williams has left a security question for a select group of people… gentlemen, may I have your names please?"

"Iain Kirkland," Scotland said clearly.

"I see sir, yes Mr. Williams has listed you as his uncle," she clicked on something and cleared her throat. "Now, the young man with you – what was your name again and your business with Mr. Williams?"

"Alfred F. Jones," he quipped shortly. "Like I told you earlier, he's my brother."

"Yes, of course," she smiled condescendingly. "Mr. Jones, your question is: finish this phrase. State seorsum aut simul stare,"

"Accipere manu mea, sumus fratres in aeternum," Alfred reeled off without missing a beat, a small smile playing on his lips. "Semper fi little bro…"

"Alright," the nurse huffed, irritated by the two men in her reception area. "Room 646… if you two cause any trouble…"

"Yeah," Iain waved her off. "You'll give us the boot."

"In all fairness," Alfred muttered as he followed his uncle through the doors to the residential wing. "She's caused more trouble than me."

* * *

"So lad," Scotland strolled down the sterile white corridor, seemingly at ease with his hands in his pockets. "It's been a while, how you been doing?"

"I've been better," Alfred smiled sadly. "My economy's going dodgy again and the new election is really getting rowdy this time."

"It'll get better," the Scotsman responded indifferently. "But enough about America, how's my nephew, how are you Alfred?" the American stopped in his tracks and took a shaky breath.

"I'm worried about Mattie," he admitted quietly. "I haven't spoken to him in a while so I really don't know how he's been and I don't like it." Iain sighed in agreement before walking a little further down the hall, stopping in front of a nondescript door.

"You ready to see him," he asked sympathetically, one hand resting on the handle. Alfred nodded, features setting in a determined grimace.

Iain swung the white door open, stepping into the room, Alfred following closely behind him. Both sets of eyes landed in the form on the bed at the same time.

Matthew Williams, the representation of Canada, lay on the hospital cot, pale faced and sweaty, white bandages poking out from beneath the flimsy blanket that hung loosely across his torso. Iain felt his rage skyrocket as he took in the ragged appearance of his younger nephew – he looked so fragile…

"Mattie," Alfred whispered, rushing to the side of his brother's cot. "Oh Mattie… what, how did this happen?" Tears welled up in his eyes, making them sparkle like sapphires – Iain would've usually marveled at the gemlike quality the North Americans' eyes share, but given the current circumstance, he couldn't focus on anything besides Matthew's current condition. He took as deep breath to quell his temper before standing next to the two blondes.

"He'll be alright," he assured softly, gripping Alfred's shoulder, unsure as to whether he was trying to convince Alfred or himself. "He's being taken care of, don't you worry."

"Who would do this to him," Alfred muttered his voice thick with emotion. "I mean its Matt, what's he done to deserve this?"

"That's what I'm trying to find out," Iain grumbled softly, his eyes sparking with emerald fury. "Who ever attacked Mata had a slash at Artie too…"

"What," Alfred all but yelled, jumping from the chair besides Matthew's bed. "Iggy's hurt, what happened, when?!"

"Calm down," Iain cut him off bluntly. "It was last night, the same time the bastards got Mata - the two were together when it happened."

"Then why is Mattie all bundled up here and not Iggy too," Alfred yelled before realizing what he'd said and swiftly apologizing. "Wait, no! Sorry dude, I didn't mean it like that! It's just that…"

"It's alright laddie," Scotland growled, not even bothering to hide the murderous intent in his eyes. "Arthur's not here because you're not the only hero in our family."

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**A/N: Poor Canada! One day, I'll write a story where he doesn't get beaten or abused in some way shape or form - although, you lot seem to like it so I'll carry on for now. :P **

**So, who dunnit 0.o Whoever it was had better watch out, because Scotland is getting pissed!**

**Feel free to respond to me if I send a reply to a review, you're opinions are treated equally here! **

**Simply x x**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Alright guys, we're cooking with fire! =D I didn't think I'd be able to post this chapter today, but a random surge of creativity brings you your bi-weekly dose of shite from everybody's favorite British author: J.K. Rowling, lol. **

**Siruisly though guys, Potter jokes are lame...**

**Enjoy!**

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The drive home was a quiet one. Alfred had decided to come back to Kirkland Manor with Iain to see Arthur. His little brother might be in good hands, but there was nothing stopping him from helping his father figure.

The moment Iain set foot in the front door, he was tackled by a frantic mop of red hair.

"Alba," Patrick yelled, barreling into his brother. "There's something wrong with Dylan."

"What," Iain's face contorted into a scowl. "Alfred, stay with Paddy." He quickly shoved the young man into his nephew's arms before he was off up the stairs, diving into Arthur's room. He flung the door open to find Arthur, pale faced, trying to get Dylan to respond to him in some way.

"Arthur," said blonde looked up, a frightened expression plastered across his pale features. "What's going on?"

"I don't know," Arthur admitted shakily. "He just started to freak out – when I tried to wake him he went limp…"

"Dylan," Iain tried, not really expecting a response as he rolled his brother over, looking for any outward reasons for his behavior – he did look a little flushed... The Welshman whimpered at the contact but showed no other signs that he realized what was going on around him. Iain laid a broad hand across his brother's forehead. "Shit… Arthur, go start the shower; make it cold."

Arthur stumbled off the bed, dashing into his private on-suite. Iain soon heard water running. He scooped up Dylan up off the bed, following Arthur to the shower.

* * *

Iain held his Welsh brother beneath the cold streams of water falling from Arthur's shower, ignoring the fact that his own shirt was slowly becoming drenched by the chill liquid. Eventually, he began to stir.

"What," Dylan slurred, trying to get his bearings as he awoke.

"You feel better now you eejit," Iain muttered gruffly, stepping out from beneath the shower. "Giving everybody here a fucking heart attack," Dylan groggily gripped his brother's sodden shirt, aware of the fact he could fall a good five feet should the Scotsman decide to drop him.

"Iain," Arthur asked breathlessly from his perch on the side of the bath tub. His face was pale and a light sheen of sweat was covering his forehead. "What on earth was that all about?"

"Dylan's been using magic in his sleep again," Iain sighed, putting said Welshman down on the toilet. "He was so worried about you last night; he must have acted unconsciously and tried to heal your wound. Whoever attacked you last night knew what they were doing; it still looks pretty bad." As he spoke, he removed his soaked shirt, throwing it in the linen basket in the corner before drying off his lean but muscular torso with one of Arthur's towels. The small blonde tensed up slightly, gripping the porcelain tub tightly.

"S-speaking of last night," Arthur took a deep breath. "D-did you manage to find-"

"He's being cared for at the Royal and General just down the road," Iain cut him off, knowing how painful it was for Arthur to even think that his son had been left in the street somewhere – lord knows he'd be on a warpath right now had it been Canada is his care right now and Arthur laying somewhere in a pile of blood and dirt. "The owner of the café found him last night and called an ambulance for him. Now, you two stay here, I'll be back in a second." He peered into the cabinet over the sink, pulling out a roll of fresh gauze.

"Where are you going," Dylan asked, worry plain on his face. He started to stand up.

"Calm yourself down," the Scotsman told him nonchalantly. "I'm only going to get you two some fresh clothes. Arthur, jump in the shower for a mo, you look a wee bit warm. When you're done, I'll have a wee look at your waist."

Iain stepped out of the en-suite, closing the door behind him as he took a deep breath as he pinched the bridge of nose. With all this stress and no sleep last night, this wasn't going to be easy…

* * *

Just as Iain finished gathering the clothes, Dylan burst through the bathroom door, face full of panic, tears brimming on the edge of his eyes.

"Dylan," Iain was confused and on high alert. "What's the matter?"

"Arthur, he…" without even waiting for the rest of Dylan's sentence, Iain shoved past him, dropping the clothes on the tiled floor of Arthur's bathroom. The Englishman had slipped down the side of his glass shower cubical and was slumped against the corner with one hand wrapped around his waist.

"Does it hurt again," Iain asked, purely for conversational purposes as he switched the water off. "Come, let's take a wee look." The Scotsman pulled his youngest brother up, out of his shower, paying no mind to the blonde's current state of undress as he carried the Englishman back to his bed. Iain removed the bandages from Arthur's torso, discarding the damp, bloody material.

The Englishman's left side was sporting a large, deep gash which spanned a good portion of his stomach and waist. Looking at the neat stitching that held the wound together; he had to commend Patrick's handy work – even in an adrenaline fueled panic, the Irishman had managed to ensure his stitches stayed precise and accurate.

"H-how bad is it," Arthur asked breathlessly. "It bloody stings…"

"You're lucky to be alive," Iain's temper flared again; when he found the one responsible… "This thing had to pass through half your organs; how easy is it to breathe?" He carefully rewrapped Arthur's chest with fresh bandages before laying the blonde back down.

"It's harder than it should be," Arthur admitted after a moment of speculation. "Is Dylan alright now?"

"I-I'm f-fine," said Welshman shuffled out of the bathroom, towel draped around his shivering form. "I'm j-just a lit-tle c-cold, Artie."

"Dylan, come here," Iain waved the smaller nation over. "Arthur, get some sleep, alright?"

"You're not going to leave me alone are you…" doubt-filled emerald eyes looked pleadingly at their acidic counterparts as the Scotsman pulled the duvet over the Brit's bare form.

"Don't you be worrying yourself," Iain said softly as he turned to his trembling sibling. "Dylan's climbing straight back in with you once he's dry again."

"What about you," Arthur wasn't letting this go. "Where are you going after this? You need to sleep too Iain!"

"I'm going downstairs to check on Paddy and Alfred; clothes off Dylan come on," the casual statement had Arthur sitting up abruptly. "Careful, you eejit, Paddy's stitches aren't that good."

"What do you mean Alfred," Arthur yelped indignantly. "Are you telling me America's in my house right now?"

"Aye, he was visiting Mata when I got there so he came back with me to see you," he answered offhandedly as he rubbed his brother down with a fresh towel, working the moisture off and some warmth back in. "He looked scared, I wasn't going to leave he there."

"So you just invited him back here," Arthur yelled disbelievingly.

"Are you trying to tell me you want the lad to leave," Iain quipped, his tone almost as harsh as his eyes. "Both his brother and his father were nearly murdered in the middle of the night; what was I supposed to do, let him have a panic attack like Paddy?"

"Stop it!" Dylan screamed, gaining the attention of both quarreling nations. The Welshman's shoulders were tensed, his forest green eyes swimming with tears. "Can't you two get along for five minutes? We're all stressed out, but we can't take it out on one another." The room fell into a dumbfounded silence.

"Cymru…" Iain sighed, pulling him into his chest. "I'm sorry, that got out of hand…"

"Just," Dylan curled into the Scotsman, his voice scarcely above a whisper now. "Just please, don't shout…"

"Alright," he placed a soft kiss on Dylan's forehead before hoisting him into his arms like a child and carrying him back to his side of Arthur's bed. "Now, both of you get some rest, I'll be back up to check on you later, okay?"

The blondes nodded as they snuggled into one another, settling down for some much needed rest. Iain watched them both sadly for a moment before slipping out of the room and heading back downstairs.

* * *

**A/N: Are we liking? Next update, I promise I'll start dropping hints as to who our mystery attacker is. If anyone can guess it correctly, I'll do a request of your choice, no restrictions (beyond the fact that I don't _really_ want to get removed from the site) Till next time,**

**Simply. x x **


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Hello internet! Oh my goodness it is so good to have you back. ^w^ My laptop has been refusing to connect for a while and trying to update during IT is too much hard work...  
**

**Oh, and surprise, surprise... looks like we've survived yet another Apocalypse... **

**Any who, since I've been gone for so long, I've had plenty of time to sort out the kinks in my writing flow and get the ball rolling again - for this story at least. Either way, I'm giving you a double update!**

**Bearing in mind I'm British, I'm posting this at about 2:40pm my time, it'll probably be roughly 5-6am over in the States, I'm going to post the other chapter either 10pm (British time) or just tomorrow, depending on how bored I get...**

**One thing... _Bystander, _might I inquire as to why you're chewing on my story, you loony =p but yes, you may have more. **

**Also, silverheartlugia2000, you requested a list of nicknames and the likes for the British isles; I've put it at the bottom, because I'm certain that you're all sick of listening to me waffle on up here. **

* * *

"You alright there lad," Iain poked his head round the doorway leading to the living room, guessing that the American must have taken up residence in there if the sound of Marvel superheroes was anything to go by. The perky blonde peered over the back of the sofa, flashing his uncle a bright smile.

"Hey Uncle Scotland," he brought one arm up to lean on the back of the sofa. "Yeah, I'm fine, how's Artie? And Dylan; Patrick was freaking out for like a good ten minutes."

"They're fine now, how's Paddy, he's awful quiet," Iain strode over to find the Irishman dozing with his head resting on Alfred's lap, the blonde had his hand draped across his shoulder in an almost protective manner. "Nice work laddie, how'd you get him to calm down so quickly?" He ruffled the boy's sunshine blonde locks, giving him an appraising smirk. Alfred smiled back, enjoying the praise before becoming more subdued.

"Mattie has panic attacks every now and then," he smiled sadly, thinking back to the sight of his younger brother hooked up to various machines and regulators. "They're always bad, so I've gotten really good at helping him through them. I can't stand to watch him go through them though; I guess the same thing kicked in with Patrick…"

"I ken what you mean," he sighed, running his hand through his hair in expiration – a bad habit he'd had since he was small; it'd send him bald eventually. "You want a drink? Paddy will be alright for a while, c'mon."

* * *

"So how are we going to find who did it?" Alfred asked, staring levelly at the redhead on the other side of the table. "Is there anything you could use to narrow down the possible suspects?"

"You've been watching Artie's crime dramas again," the Scotsman teased, earning an ill-concealed blush from his nephew. "Well, the fact that they took out Arthur and Mata at once means it had to have been either one nation with crazy strength or a group of them."

"Mattie's the second largest nation on earth," Alfred scoffed, although his skeptics did hold a hint of pride. "I've seen that dude wrestle with Russia and win – there's no way in hell one dude took him out."

"Alright," Iain sighed, long fingers running through his hair once more. "So we're looking for a group of nations, I think Arthur said three, who are capable of overwhelming two of the world's great powers… this should be fun."

"You really only need to get all the nations trapped in a room and confront them all at once," Alfred stated offhandedly, taking a sip of tea as he thought. "I know, I'll start kidnapping the Asian nations, you gather Europe!"

"Nice plan," Iain smiled sarcastically; how could the American be so lucid one moment and the thick as shit the next? "Hey lad, how did you plan on kidnapping Russia exactly?"

"Umm," he nibbled his lower lip in thought. "Spike his vodka?"

"Oh aye," the older nation chuckled. "Why not waltz up behind him and say 'Hey Russia does this rag smell funny to you?' smart move lad."

"Ok," Alfred started laughing too. "Maybe that one's a bad idea." The soft laughter soon died out into stillness as both nations wracked their brains for a solution.

The pair sat in silence for a moment longer until the peace was shattered by 'The Star Spangled Banner' blaring its way out of Alfred's pocket.

"Sorry," the blonde blushed, pulling the device out of his pocket, hushing the small machine. "I set an alarm so I wouldn't miss my flight over here for the World Conference tomorrow…"

"That's it," Iain exclaimed, standing abruptly. "The World Conference; I'm going to represent the United Kingdom!" he slapped the table to affirm his decision.

"Awesome dude," Alfred yelled, standing with his uncle. A sudden thought dawned on him. "Just… what do you plan to do anyway?"

"Simple," the redhead smirked, an evil glint flashing in his venomously green eyes as he strode out of the room. "We're going to confront them."

* * *

Meanwhile, not too far away from all the excitement of the Kirkland residence, an elderly man in a white coat sat at his desk, puzzling over the data one of his head nurses had given him. Apparently, one of the newest arrivals – a young man whom had presumable be caught up in a street fight – was making an astoundingly fast recovery.

There had been heavy bruising on his face, arms and chest, but most of it had calmed down and the purple-black welts on his skin were no more than lilac-y patches; only 40 hours after the incident and he'd made about a month's worth of progress!

The wizened man sat, stroking his stubbly chin as he allowed his thoughts to wash over him.

What was the boy's secret? Did he even know what he was doing right now? If he could figure out the child's secret, he could help develop medical research to the extent where everyone could heal with the same astonishing speed as the young Canadian in his care.

_He's healing so fast, it hardly seems human_, one of the nurses had said; he was inclined to believe her. Looking at the records, the young man should've died from blood loss with the amount of knife wounds that littered his pale skin, but he'd stabilized without much hassle and had began making a steady recovery seemingly overnight.

The Doctor flicked through the files regarding the young man whom had been brought into the care of his hospital last night. Looking at his personal data, he could see that the young man was listed as a Canadian politician – international affairs liaison… but he was barely more than a boy; how could he be in such a position? None of this seemed to add up.

_"Hardly seems human"_ those words had been lurking in the back of his mind ever since the nurse had said them.

Maybe, just possibly, he'd stumbled onto something so spectacular, so amazing he would go down in medical history!

But he couldn't do this on his own, oh no! He'd call in his lifelong partner: Dr Gavotte, the French biologist extraordinaire. Together, they would find the cause of this young man's unusual condition through complex testing and trialing; perhaps they could produce a miracle cure that could solve issues like cancer or AIDS…

Yes, he would call the good doctor right now.

* * *

**A/N: The nicknames:**

**A lot of the time, you see the British Isles call one another by varying names and titles. I personally have used their nations' old names and a couple of made up nick/pet names for all of them. Here's a list of them with the Nation name in italics:**

**Scotland (Iain) - _Alba, _Scottie (occasionally)  
**

**Ireland (Molly) - _Erie, _Molls (Scotland's pet name for her), **

**Northern Ireland (Patrick) - _Tuaisceart_ (I know I haven't used this yet, but I thought I'd put it in) Paddy or Padds (Generally only by Scotland for the latter)**

**Wales (Dylan)- _Cymru_**

**England (Arthur) - _Albion_ (I've not used it yet), Artie, Iggy, Mum (you'll see) Dad, Eyebrows... the usual, you know... **

**Anyway, thanks for sticking with me,**

**Simply. x x **


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Merry Christmas everybody! I hope you've had/are having a wonderful day! I would've slapped this up earlier, but I couldn't fight my way through all the chocolate. Plus, thanks to my FREAKING AWESOME Father, I know possess all four seasons of Hetalia plus the Paint It White film and well, they just had to watched :3 I'm watching Captain America right now... Shh! I'm a Marvel nerd, so sue me!**

**Esmeraude11:** **I agree, you need to get the Oceania brothers in here: so here they are! =D **

**Anyway, as a weird sort of gift to you guys, here's an update on Christmas Day! I've started dropping hints as to who the culprit(s) might be so, Let the Games Begin! **

**_Warning: A British level of intuition and detective skills will be required to decode these messages._**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

Icy blue eyes flickered down in irritation before surveying the room as always, taking in how many nations were missing and guess how long he would have to wait before the meeting could actually start. A few of the usual culprits were missing, although the conference didn't actually start for another ten minutes, it was still annoying to have nations wandering inside in the last few minutes (or even seconds in some cases) before the beginning of a world conference.

Bulgaria, Denmark, a few of the African nations, Greece (he'd probably overslept again): none of these seemed unusual, but the absence of one particular nation was unnerving to say the least… where was England? The other blonde was almost never late, and considering the fact that he was hosting this particular conference was even more concerning. Germany swept his gaze across the room once more, noting that America was absent also and the seats the two nations always occupied were void of any signs of having been used that morning – definitely not in the bathroom then…

"Italy," Germany said simply in his gruff tenor. "Go find Romano, you were whining all night about not seeing him."

"Oh," the small Italian looked up for a moment, catching the grim look in Germany's eye. "Ok! I'll come back when the meeting starts, ok?"

"Ja, whatever," Germany strode across the room, focused on two nations specifically. France was stood in the corner on the room speaking animatedly with a woman with long orange hair that flowed to her waist: The Republic of Ireland. Her bright green eyes were alight with a fiery kind of passion that most nations had only ever seen in England – it was probably a shared trait of the British Isles.

"Where is he," France was tapping his foot impatiently. "Couldn't you call one of your brothers to take his place?"

"Do I look like your personal servant," she growled, giving the appearance of a wildcat waiting to pounce. "You've got Alba's number, you call him."

"I would," the blonde smiled sheepishly. "But he won't answer my calls after I got Arthur drunk and tried to um…"

"I hope I'm not interrupting anything," Germany stepped in as Ireland seemed to prickle up, most likely saving France from a free facial remodeling. "But I was wondering if either of you knew where Britain was, he's never normally this late; he's supposed to be hosting the conference today, we can't start without him."

"That was actually what we were discussing," France replied quickly, stepping towards the German nation. "I was asking our dear Molly here if she knew where her little brother had run off too."

"And I told darling Francy pants," she smiled scornfully at the Frenchman. "That Artie's a big boy; he doesn't need me wiping his ass every five seconds. I'm sorry Germany, but I don know where the representative of Great Britain is, nor do I care enough to check." With that, she abruptly walked off, sitting deftly down in her seat across the room without even so much as a second glance behind her.

"I suppose we'd better get started," Germany sighed, striding back to the main throng. "Alright, everybody settle down and take your seats, the world conference is about to begin!"

All the nations turned at the familiar sound of the German accented voice bellowing across the conference room and began pottering over to their seats, begrudgingly getting out papers and documents for the longwinded discussions that awaited them.

"Alright, now the issue of…" Germany began, only to be interrupted by the doors slamming open.

"Sorry about that," Scotland smiled cockily as he strode into the conference room, America hot on his heels. "Some dippy pillock thought the meeting didn't start for another half hour."

"Hey," America slunk in behind him, eyes downcast meekly. "I only wanted to get lunch…"

"Just park your arse lad," the Scotsman growled, stalking to the head of the table, staring down each and every nation with his poisonous green eyes. "Right, Molly, before you start, sit down and I'll explain." All eyes turned to Ireland, who was stood, mouth agape in preparation to speak. She stayed there for a moment longer, almost seeming to contemplate testing her fellow Celtic nation, before sitting back down without so much a word.

"As I was saying, most of you probably realized when you got here that your host nation was missing. For those of you who didn't know, England represents the United Kingdom of Greater Britain and Northern Ireland as a whole. I'm the personification of Scotland and I am here to take England's place for this meeting."

Nations started whispering to their neighbors. With his sensitive ears, Scotland could pick out phrases like "Can he do that?" and "Did you know about that?" "When did that become a thing?"

"Where exactly is L'Angleterre mon ami," France called out across the table, his bearded chin resting in one slender hand, elegant brows knitted together. "It's not like him to skip out on hosting a meeting; not without a damn good reason."

"That's actually the only reason I'm here," the redhead's mouth twisted into a vicious smirk. "Someone, somewhere in this room, is responsible for the hospitalization of both England and Canada,"

"What?!" a cacophony of outrage arose at these words as Ireland, Australia, France and a few more Commonwealth countries like New Zealand and Seychelles all stood in indignation.

"What on earth are you saying," France cried flamboyantly. "Are you trying to tell me Mon petit Matthew is hurt? Why wasn't I told sooner?!"

"Chill dude," America stood up, slamming his hands on the desk. "We didn't even know ourselves until yesterday! Mattie's in no state to entertain guests at the minute anyway, so there wasn't any point!"

"What happened to mum," Australia bellowed across the desk, his voice uncharacteristically concerned. The rowdy brunette stood at the far end of the room, musky green eyes wide, one hand clasping onto New Zealand who stood beside him.

"All of you sit down and shut your traps," Scotland roared over the clamor building in the room. "Three, possibly more, of the nations in this room were responsible and I intend to find out whom. When I do, I will personally make the culpable party wish that they had never been born. Be assured that I will find you and you will pay, now; I'm going home; Molly, Keith, Francis, Jesse, Vicky, feel free to join us, come on Alfred."

He stood for a moment longer, watching the Nations whisper amongst each other. Italy was clinging to Germany whose broad jaw was working back and forth; processing the information he'd just been told. Spain was trying to share his disbelief with Romano who seemed more interested in yelling profanities at the Spaniard. A couple of the eastern Europeans, the likes of Ukraine, Belarus and Romania, sat in a small cluster, all of them whispering intently. Romania and Ukraine looked slightly paler than normal – probably shaken by the news, Scotland concluded quickly. Liechtenstein looked like she was close to tears; not really surprising considering the fact that Switzerland tried his hardest to keep her away from any conflict, she didn't quite have the same military history under her belt as some of the other nations present like Russia or Hungary. Speaking of Russia, he was still wearing his signature unnervingly calm and blissful smile. Scotland couldn't help it, but he always felt like the Russian nation was planning something…

"Alba," Ireland called softly from the doorway, flanked by the Oceanic duo, France, Seychelles and America. "Are you coming?"

"Aye," he muttered distractedly, his eyes unconsciously sweeping over the personifications of Europe once more before he turned on his heel and strode out of the room, his family trailing behind him.

* * *

**A/N: Can you tell who it is yet? (Rolf Harris) Oh, of course you can't; not properly anywho, that's the point. :3 **

**Remember, first to get it wins a free story! **

**Love you all, thanks for sticking with me,**

**Simply. x x **


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: OFMG, I'm alive! Happy New Year everyone! I know it's a little late, but I didn't have anything to post yesterday so...**

**Thanks to you all for following/reviewing or just reading this story! 63 followers on this story; you guys rock! **

**Tantei No Hime: It's fine, you didn't kill anyone with your mini tidare :D I've put the age chart you requsted at the bottom, I hope it helps! **

**Anyway, enjoy!**

* * *

"Paddy, we're home," Iain called out from the front door of the Kirkland manor. "I've brought some people back with me, come down and say hi!"

"Who is it," Patrick appeared at the top of the stairs, his eyes widening in glee as he saw the group near the front door. "Molly!" he ran down the stairs, embracing his Irish sister.

"Paddy," the ginger woman smiled brightly, happily returning the affectionate bear hug. "It's so good to see you again!"

"How're Artie and Dylan," Iain asked, removing his outdoor coat. "Did you get along alright whilst we were gone?"

"I think Arthur's actually getting a little better," Patrick's eyes sparkled as he spoke. "He sat and had a chat with me earlier and he managed to drink a cup of tea."

"Has he eaten anything?"

"I asked and he said he wasn't hungry…" he shifted uncomfortably. "I tried to convince him, but he said he probably couldn't stomach anything more than some earl grey…"

"Its fine," Iain rested one broad hand in his brother's auburn locks. "He's most likely right about the food; has Dylan woken up today?"

"No," he admitted softly. "I didn't know if I should wake him up or not…"

"No, you were right to leave him," Iain started up the stairs. "You catch up with Molls, I'll see to the others."

"But we want to see mum," Keith interjected, his sister lurking close behind. "Is he alright?"

"That's what I'm going to check," the Scot dismissed them with a flick of his wrist. "Paddy, why don't you get everyone a drink?"

"Alba," the Scot turned to the sound of Ireland's voice, raising an eyebrow. "Take Al with you, the lad doesn't deserve to be left down here alone." Don't leave him to be interrogated – that's what she really meant.

"Alright, I ken Molls," he turned and started back up the stairs. "C'mon lad,"

* * *

"Hello there Arthur, how're you feeling?" the Englishman gazed over at the door of his room as it creaked open to reveal his brother and his son. "I wasn't too long, was I?"

"Not at all," Arthur smiled softly, leaning against the headboard. "Actually, Paddy and I have been having a jolly little natter; he made me a rather nice cup of tea a short while ago too."

"You're feeling a little better then," Iain smiled back at the blonde. "There are a few people downstairs who came to see you, if you're feeling up to it that is."

"Really," he looked mildly surprised but somewhat pleased nonetheless. Finally, his emerald eyes slide past his brother, landing on the oddly silent form of America standing behind him. "Alfred?" he looked up slowly, shifting his weight awkwardly from foot to foot.

"I'll give you two a minute," Iain muttered nonchalantly; anyone would think he'd been expecting this. He strolled out of the room, closing the door behind himself softly. Arthur's attention turned back to his son.

"Alfred," the younger blonde started chewing his lip, refusing to make eye contact with his former parent. "Poppet, are you feeling alright?"

"Alright," Alfred whispered disbelievingly, finally meeting his father's gaze. "Alright?! How do you think I feel right now?" he voice rose as he spoke, eyes glistening like uncut sapphire in the dim light of the room.

"Alfred calm down," Arthur glanced over his shoulder quickly. "Sweetie, you're going to wake up Dylan, please be quiet."

"Quiet," he gave a slight hiccup, before closing the gap between the pair of them. "You gave me a fucking heart attack." He dropped to his knees, wrapping his arms around the Brit as he buried his head in his shoulder.

"Oh poppet," Arthur cooed, rubbing slow circles into the younger nation's back. "I'm sorry for making you worry; but don't you fret, I'm not going anywhere just yet."

"I know," Alfred let a short snuff of air through his nose. "I guess I'm just getting stressed out by everything right now. What with you and Mattie getting jumped and now we're trying to track down whoever is responsible…"

"Whose idea was that," Arthur inquired softly, fiddling with a few strands of Alfred's sunshine blonde hair. "To hunt down the attackers,"

"Uncle Iain," he replied, still holding onto his father.

"Really," Arthur wanted to keep up this small talk; Alfred needed a calm moment. "How has he gone about this plan of his so far?"

"Um," Alfred chuckled. "He just walked into the World Conference and declared the news. After that, he threatened to obliterate the ones who did it before leaving the room with half the Commonwealth on his heels."

"I see," the Englishman let out a soft 'hmm'. "So how many people are sat in my front room at this current moment in time?"

"T-thanks for that," Alfred pulled away, setting himself in the chair beside the bed, blushing furiously.

"Any time poppet, now who is in my house?"

"Let's see," the American thought for a second. "We brought back Aunt Molly for a start. France-y pants came too, although I think it was more for Mattie, I don't know… Victoria's here! Keith and Jesse too! You should probably speak with Australia actually; dude crapped his pants when he heard about you and Matt."

"Right," Arthur glanced over his shoulder; content with the fact that his brother hadn't been woken up by Alfred's mini rant, he turned back to his son. "Help me down the stairs will you?"

* * *

Meanwhile in Norway, a certain Dane was making a nuisance of himself as per usual.

"Denmark, will you please just leave already?"

Norway had had it up here with that bloody Dane and the idiot was tenacious at best. He'd been bothering the poor Norwegian since Germany had called the meeting off earlier; after Scotland had wandered in and killed any chances of order for the day – not to mention the fact that there's no point in having a World Conference if half of the world's most powerful and prominent nations weren't even there.

"Oh, c'mon Norge," the lanky Dane followed his stoic companion through his house. "I'm sorry okay? I didn't mean to spill coffee on your book, I swear!"

"I told you four hours ago to home," Norway spun around to face Denmark, his usually emotionless eyes full of anger. "That book was invaluable Matthias; you of all people should know that!"

"I do know that," Denmark tried to explain. "If I didn't, do you think I'd be apologizing this much?" Norway stood, staring disbelievingly at the blonde before him; how could one man be so…

"Norge, where are you going?" Denmark cried as the Norwegian turned on his heel and strode off towards the front door of his own home.

"Out," he snapped sharply. "If you won't leave, then I will."

"Come on Norge," he tried to stop the shorter nation from leaving. "It's a spell book; can't you just, I don't know, magic it better?"

"It's not that easy you moron," the smaller nation halted at the entryway, rounding on his companion, heavy winter coat swinging in his hand. "Don't you think I'd already thought of that? My magic isn't strong enough yet; I can't repair it without the spell which was on one of the pages you ruined!"

"I'll get you another copy," the blonde persisted, determined to talk his brother nation out of leaving. "You always find your books either online or in some antique store; I'll start looking around tomorrow!"

"I wasn't even my book!" furious tears were forming in the corners of Norway's misty blue eyes now as he glowered at the contrite man following in his wake. "That book actually belongs to Scotland of all nations and was completely irreplaceable! It contained some of the most beautifully crafted spells and incantations in the history of magic and was hand written by Britannia herself; it took Arthur years to convince his brother to part with it long enough for me to even look at it!"

"If it was that important, why did you leave it just lying around?" Denmark bellowed back, having had enough of being berated by his northern neighbor. "You should have locked it away in a private room where no one would ever find it!"

"I left it in my study!" rivulets of moisture finally broke free from foggy azure orbs, betraying the Norwegian's frustration. "My _private_ study which no one besides myself and occasionally England should _ever_ enter!"

"I'm sorry, alright?" Denmark took Norway's shoulders gently in his grip. "Lukas, I know I fucked up like usual, but I really want to help you fix it this time. Why don't we go get the book and I'll explain what happened and take the wrath of Britain for you."

Lukas gave an irritated sigh before hanging his coat back on its peg, headed towards his aforementioned study.

* * *

"Shh," Lukas stopped just shy of the nondescript wooden door leading to his study.

"What is it?" Matthias asked, adopting the same hushed tones as his friend. "What's wrong?"

"Can't you hear it?" his eyes narrowed, one slender hand resting on the door handle. There's something in there…"

* * *

**A/N: The stage is set! Who is hiding in Norway's study and what are they after? Find out next time? **

* * *

_**Brief interlude so the author can go to her kitchen and make a cup of tea...**_

* * *

**Alright, age! **

**Please bear in mind that these are my opinions and might not be accurate, but it's my story! Also, since they are Nations and whatnot, these are their physical ages.**

**Scotland - 28**

**Ireland - 26**

**North - 26 (I see them as twins, Molly is older)**

**Wales - 24**

**England - 23**

**Despite their actual ages, they each seem to take it in turns to play 'Big Brother' so to speak. I think the five of them would've been drawn so close by Britannia that, even after she died and the British Isles went to pot, they coud never really hate each other... for very long. Yeah, every now and then (*cough*every other day*cough*) they get at each other's throats, but dude! That's just how family is!**

**Trust me on this, I'd know!**

**Simply. x x**


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Hello again folks, sorry about the wait. I hope the fact that this chapter is about twice as long as the rest makes up for that! It wasn't intentional either, it just sort of happened...**

**This is being prepared at about 11 am GMT; in the midst of my preparing for an English exam rather ironically...**

**Anyway, have fun!**

* * *

"There's something in there…"

Lukas paused at the door to his study, Matthias lurking apprehensively behind him. Both of them were listening intently to the soft scuffling sounds emanating from the other side of the wood. Lukas' brow furrowed in confusion as he tried to reason why someone would be inside his house…

"The book,"

Lukas thrust the door open, wild eyes searching the room for any signs of life. A small figure stood, swathed in a heavy black cloak that reached the floor, the hood effectively hiding their face from view. The intruder's elegant hands were poised over the ancient spell book.

"Who are you," the Norwegian demanded, his long rested Scandinavian fury rising to the surface. "How the hell did you get into my house?"

They turned their head towards the new arrivals, their face obscured by the deep shadows cast by the weighty weave. A light, tinkling laugh sounded as a touch of amethyst glinted through the darkness. Norway felt a shiver run down his spine at the unnatural glimmer of light; Denmark followed in his wake, only pausing when the Norwegian blocked his path.

"You're in my way," they stated simply, their voice monotonic and infuriatingly androgynous. "Get out, leave me be."

"You've got some nerve," Norway could hear a hint of malice that hadn't surfaced in the Dane since their Viking days. "Move over Norge, I'm gonna kick his ass."

"Matthias wait," the taller blonde shoved through the doorway, lunging across the room at the hooded intruder, battleaxe in hand. He swung, aiming to cleave the little creep clean in half. They swept away from the black metal as it came down, almost seeming to glide over the cobble flooring in Norway's study.

"Pointless," the thing laughed, dancing away like a leaf in the wind every time Denmark would try to strike. "My turn." It raised its small hand once more, shouting something indecipherable in a language that sounded familiar yet foreign. Small white crystals formed at their fingertips before launching themselves towards the Dane who, already in motion, knew he wouldn't be able to stop himself nor avoid the attack.

"Beskytte," Norway leapt in front of Denmark, heavy, leather-bound book resting in the nook of his left elbow. "I told you to wait." He panted, watching the crystals shatter against the shimmering wall of light he had erected.

"Are you alright Norge," Matthias asked, noticing a shudder run through the smaller man before him. "You look-"

"I'm fine," Lukas snapped. "Just watch what you're doing you idiot. Gjenta!" the shield dropped as crystal shards, identical to the ones just fired at Denmark, flew back across the room towards the Dane's attacker. It hissed as it shied away from its own attack.

"This isn't fun anymore," it pouted as it floated away from the duo, stopping by Norway's desk to pick up Scotland's spell book. "It was fun to play with you two, but I'm getting bored."

"Where do you think you're going," Lukas shouted angrily, earning a shocked flinch from the psychotic ex-Viking stood beside him. "Don't act like I'm not here!" he growled, launching another round of crystal daggers.

"Norge," Matthias called in alarm at his companion's uncharacteristically aggressive outburst.

"Sufoca," it swept its arm in front of its body, violet fire blazing behind the veil of shadows cast by its hood as it spat out the foreign language. "Termina viata ta!"

The shards paused in midair, shattering into a fine mist. A shockwave of air rushed past the Norwegian, forcing him to stop and brace himself against the sudden onslaught. By the time either of the Nordic nations looked up again the cloaked mage had vanished.

"Hey Norge, you alright," the Dane looked over to his friend, a frown crumpling his forehead as he noted the labored strain to the Norwegian's breathe. "Norge… Lukas?"

"I'm f-fine you… idiot," he gasped, heavy spell book slipping from his grasp as he stumbled in his footing, one graceful hand rising to clutch at his chest.

"You don't look it," the boisterous blonde stated as he came to stand by the smaller man, trying to offer a supporting arm. "Here, let me help."

"Don't… t-touch… m-e," Lukas struggled, failing to sound even remotely forceful. He began to tremble as his legs gave way beneath him. Matthias stooped, catching the slender man before he could hit the cobbled stone floor.

"Norge," he brought the smaller nation into his chest, despite the barely audible protests the Norwegian managed to force out. "Norge, calm down, tell me what's wrong."

"I…," his chest heaved with the effort it tool to produce each word. "I c-can't…"

"Can't," the Dane urged gently. "Can't what? Tell me Lukas, I can't help if you won't let me."

"Brea…" he rasped, his entire body convulsing with pain. "Clo-ak… s-spell… can't…"

"Hey," Matthias hushed him softly. "Stop talking. Just focus on breathing slowly; follow me."

Lukas found himself panicking as he tried to center himself on the slow, steady breaths sounding next to his ear; why couldn't he slow down his breath? What had that intruder done to him? Why didn't he know that spell? England was right: he needed to spend more time and effort on his magical studies, least he should be overpowered y another spell-caster. That had seemed so trivial, almost impossible even, to think that he would ever have to face off against someone with greater magic than himself.

"Calm down Norge," Matthias commanded soothingly, breaking the death-grip Lukas had around his shirt collar. "You'll only make yourself worse like that. Breathe with me; in and out, just like that." The smaller blonde closed his eyes; using the broad hand clasping his own as a focal point he began trying to regulate his own respiratory action.

"That's it," the Dane smiled tenderly, still holding the Norwegian up as he managed to catch his breath. "Good, keep it up…" Lukas obeyed, drawing in deeply through his nose before letting the air gush out from between his lips. After a few more breaths, the smaller blonde relinquished his grip on the other, leaning against his desk as he steadied himself.

"You feeling better now," Matthias inquired, taking the chair by the old oak desk; Lukas nodded. "That's good… say, Norge: what exactly happened to you anyhow?"

"I don't know," he admitted softly, almost ashamed to say it. "They cast a spell before they left, but I'm not sure what it was meant to do… surely not just make it a little difficult to breathe for a while, that would be pointless, especially if you're only using it on one of us…" the two sat in silence, deep in thought as they tried to decipher the intruder's intentions.

"Matthias…" "They have Britannia's sketchbook, what are we supposed to do?"

"We go tell Scotland," the Dane stated simply.

"What," Norway shot him a look of total disbelief. "Are you insane? I think Scotland has enough to deal with without us telling him we've lost his mother's book!"

"What else do you propose we do" Denmark stared him down, his voice level. "We don't know what's going on for a start; Britain needs to know about the book and we've seen first hand that you and I aren't able to stop whoever that was. We need to tell them, we need help."

* * *

"Arthur!"

"Dad?"

"Mum?"

"Albion!"

Once Alfred had finally managed to help his father down the stairs and into the front room, they had been greeted most exuberantly. Ireland was the first on her feet, slinging her arms around her youngest brother before he could so much as smile at the small army of family members sipping drinks in his lounge.

"Oh," she stepped back after a moment, taking in his slightly haggard appearance before scowling playfully at the blonde. "You really need to stop doing things like this; we've all had enough of Alba telling us you've gone and almost died on us!" a few loose chuckles rang through the room at this comment.

"I'm sorry Molly," Arthur smiled at his sister; he took in the people in his lounge. Francis had claimed Arthur's favorite armchair by the fireplace, Molly had been sat on the sofa to the right with Patrick. Keith, Jesse and Victoria were sat together on the sofa on the left. "All of you, I hate making you all worry, really. I always seem to be ill or injured in some way shape or form."

"Although L'Angleterre," Francis interjected teasingly as he casually slipped his mobile back into his trouser pocket. "Considering how you looked after some of your more serious bouts of incapacity, I'd say you came off quite well from this one."

"Quite well," Molly turned to the Frenchman, glaring daggers into his smug face. "_More serious bouts?_ Even you can see how bad he still is! I don't care how trivial you _think_ this is; don't try to downplay this! You know just as well as I do; you can hardly compare some of Arthur's 'previous ailments' to what's happening now."

"Oh my Mon Cherie," Francis' voice remained playful as his eyes turned steely. "Considering how little you claimed to care about your frère barely an hour ago, you sure are hitching up your petticoats about all this now."

"Don't you dare give me shit," Molly stepped forward, grabbing fistfuls of France's shirt, her natural 'Irish Fire' taking over. "I don't give a damn how good our national relationships are, if you make this situation any worse than it strictly has to be I will personally rip your guts out and use them to hang you from your own parliament."

"Molly," Arthur interrupted carefully from his new place at the end of the three seat sofa. "Drop the Frog; come calm down for a minute." He patted the spot between himself and Patrick, motioning for their sister to join them. Molly stood her ground, her fists still entangled within the Frenchman's shirt. The tension within the room grew thick; out of the corner of his eye, Arthur could see New Zealand slipping his arm around Seychelles' shoulders, pulling her closer as she gripped the front of his shirt. Australia sat on his other side, edging forwards on his seat in anticipation. Alfred slunk across the room, also coming closer to his furious aunt, ready to jump in if necessary.

"Erie, please," Paddy stood cautiously, determined to help Arthur diffuse the situation. "Please don't start a fight…" the Irishwoman didn't so much as bat an eyelash at her brothers' pleas.

"Molly," Arthur stood also; his voice warning and authoritative. Without a word, she released the Frenchman, her fury temporarily suppressed behind glowing eyes as she turned to face her brothers.

"Good little Ireland," Francis spat as he straightened his shirt. "Listen to your brothers. I suppose all you _were_ ever capable of was listening to the British Empire!"

Before anyone could stop her, Ireland spun back around, her fist connecting with the side of France's face. The blonde gave a shocked grunt as he staggered backwards with the force of the blow.

The trio on the sofa leapt to their feet as Patrick and Arthur both lunged, grabbing their sister before she could do anymore damage to the Frenchman.

"Dirty savage," France spat a small glob of blood and about three teeth into Arthur's carpet. "Honestly, did your mother teach you nothing?"

The siblings all froze at the mention of their only parental figure. Three different hues of green turned to face the Frenchman, each ablaze with malice; Arthur looked almost as murderous as his pirate days.

"Stop them," Alfred pounced on Francis, hustling him rather ungracefully out of the room. Keith tackled Arthur and Patrick as they hurled abuse after them, Seychelles ran up the stairs to fetch Iain whilst Jesse held onto his aunt. Francis wrestled uselessly against the brute strength that was America as the blonde dragged him to the front door.

"I'm going to beat you to a bloody pulp," Arthur bellowed. "You fucking wanker, I'll rip your face off and feed it to your bloody cat!" his breath caught and the Englishman began choking.

"Calm down mum," Keith tried hopelessly, noting that his brother wasn't having much more luck with their aunt.

"Please, Molly," the poor Kiwi tried desperately as he clung to the struggling woman's waist. "Stop, Calm down!"

"Let me go," she writhed. "I'm going to strangle him with his small intestines; I'll cut him open with a spoon and take his lungs out with my bare hands!" even Patrick was screaming at the top of his lungs, striving to free himself from beneath his bulky Australian nephew.

The entire room descended into chaos.

* * *

**A/N: Alright guys, I think my chapters are getting longer! I've not actually managed to post this until 22:30 GMT but I think I've passed by descriptive writing assessment. :D **

**Whoever sent a review under the alias 'O.O' thank you, that was really sweet. **

**Tell me what you think?**

**Simply. x x**


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: OMG! Chapter nine?! I think this is the longest a brain-fart has ever lasted for me. I can't believe you guys are still here!**

**Dani9922: Thanks for the medical note. I'll admit that I probably wouldn't have remembered to include that little detail. I've never really been physically ill or injured, so my medical knowledge is lacking. **

**Enjoy?**

* * *

Iain wasn't pleased.

He sat in the dim light of Arthur's room, frowning in distain at the lack of process the Welshman had been making. The honey blonde was nestled in the queen sized bed, sweaty hair clinging to his flushed cheeks; his breath was ragged and uneven.

Shortly after the blonde 'father and son' duo had left, Iain had taken the liberty of blocking Dylan's magic. The underlying stress caused by the sudden turn of events surrounding Arthur was causing Dylan's magic to act of its own accord, suiting what it thought its master wanted. Now that Iain had ensured that that would no longer be an issue, the Welshman could finally start to heal; sure, it meant Arthur would slow down, but it also meant that Wales wouldn't be suffering because of it.

The Scotsman let out a tired sigh; Arthur was right, even he needed to rest every now and then. Come to think of it, Arthur was downstairs in the care of his children and previous lover, Dylan was now on the road to recovery… a quick nap wouldn't hurt anyone; he would wake up if Dylan needed him and Iain could already feel his eyes slipping…

"Uncle Scotland," a quiet but urgent voice pulled the redhead out of the clutches of sleep. "I'm really, really sorry if I woke you." Iain turned his head to see Seychelles stood awkwardly in the doorway, fiddling with one of her long chocolate brown pigtails.

"What the fuck do you want," he grumbled irritably. "C'mon, spit it out quick, I'm tired."

"Alright," she took a deep breath before letting the jumble of words tumble from her mouth. "Daddy came down to see everyone, but Papa said something to Molmol and she got really annoyed and punched him in the face and Daddy and Padpad got up to stop her doing it again he called you all savages and something about Britannia not raising you properly and…" he didn't even wait for her to finish before he was on his feet, dashing back down the stairs.

* * *

Iain slid down the banister, stumbling slightly in his haste to reach the lounge. All lingering thoughts of sleep were abolished when he saw the state of his three younger siblings.

Molly was struggling against Jesse, the poor New Zealander trying desperately to calm the irate nation down. He held the petite woman around the waist, her feet not even touching the ground as she kicked and screamed in fury, determined to catch up with the Frenchman and give him a sound thrashing. Australia was still pinning Northern Ireland to the plush carpet. The Englishman himself also lay beneath the bulky brunette, breath heaving from exertion. Iain felt a vein in his temple twitch in irritation.

"Shut it," the Scotsman bellowed, his voice rattling the glass show cabinet which housed Arthur's prized hunting rifles. Silence drop over the room like a ton of bricks. "I cannae leave you feckers alone for five minutes, can I?"

"Just let me go and beat the seven bells out of that French bastard!" Molly refused to relinquish her anger. "You'd want to kill him too if you'd hear the shi-"

"Oi Guinness," Iain cut her tirade short. "Shut your mouth. Get you ass outside and calm the fuck down, Paddy too." The Irish twins glanced at each other before scurrying out of the room, having decided that it may be best not to question nor oppose their eldest's judgment at that given time.

"How is going out going to help?" Keith asked, shooting the Scotsman a quizzical look. "Couldn't they just follow old France-y pants?"

"Nah," Iain dismissed, kneeling down to examine his youngest brother. "There are plenty of deer in the forest behind Arthur's garden."

"France is gone," Alfred came to sit beside the trio on the floor, Jesse having resigned back to the sofa. What have deer got to do with anything?

"Maybe they'll catch a stag," the redhead chuckled. "Now, Arthur… silly, silly Arthur… didn't I tell you Paddy's stitching wasn't perfect?"

"Go die," Arthur ground out weakly, a patch of deep red marring his pale pajama top.

"Alfred, go fetch the first aid kit would you," Iain asked, casually ignoring the wounded blonde's remark. "Keith, grab your brother a drink, the lad looks worn." Both nations scurried off to the kitchen to fulfill their uncle's request. Iain shot a glance at New Zealand before turning his attention back towards his own brother.

"I've sealed off Dylan's magic," he muttered, his eyes shifting through varying shades of green; their usual acidic hue to an emerald that derided Arthur's, over to a sort of teal before settling in a washed out mockery of their usual fire. "He won't be able to cast any spells until I remove it, but he will start to heal."

"T-that's good," Arthur groaned, generous brows coming together. "I'm sorry… about everything…" the blonde panted from the effort of speaking.

"It's alright," Iain hushed him, a rare gentle smile gracing his lips as he ran his long fingers through Arthur's unruly blonde locks. "If I couldn't manage you four, what kind of older brother would I be?"

"I found it," Alfred came lumbering back into the lounge, waving a small green bag over his head with a pleased grin on his face. "Here. Is there anything else you need?" Alfred's million-watt smile didn't falter, but Iain could see the concern lingering in his eyes; he'd always called them "Cobalt Books" because of how expressive the little orbs seemed to be.

"No lad, that's fine," he took the medical pack before waving the blonde away.

"Alright then, I'll just…"

"Actually," the Scotsman collared the boy as he reached the door. "Take New Zealand. Get him a drink or a snack – whatever he wants really – then take him up to his old room; he deserves a nap after having to wrestle with Molly, check she didn't hurt him too much."

"Whatever you say captain," the bubbly American gave a mock salute before helping his Oceanic brother off of Arthur's sofa and all but carrying the dazed nation through to the kitchen.

"Aright then," the Scotsman turned back to his brother once more. "Let's get you cleaned up."

* * *

Francis gave a heavy sigh as he pulled into a layby a few miles away from Arthur's house. He once again pulled his mobile out of his pocket, settling into the seat of his hired car as he hit speed dial. Francis worked his abused jaw back and forth as he listened to the dial tone drone in his ear; despite her small stature, Molly Kirkland had a fierce left hook and this wasn't the first time the Frenchman had been on the receiving end of it. Due to the island nation's short temper – France swore it was a family trait or something – she had a tendency to lash out at whoever had irked her, or whoever was nearest at that time. The blonde ran his tongue around the right side of his mouth, counting up the damage as he silently cussed the fact that the person he was trying to contact wasn't picking up.

_Both bottom molars, _he thought in distaste, his nose wrinkling up at the taste of blood lingering in his mouth. _Top canine… that's three gone in total…_

"Good evening Francis," the heavily accented voice purred through the phone.

"Ah," the blonde started, hurriedly removing his tongue from exploring the right side of his mouth. "Mon Ami, you wanted to speak?"

"I suppose that means you got my text. Where are you?"

"Roughly a kilometer from Kirkland manor." Francis wiggled his jaw again, prodding the tender flesh on his chin. "I was looking for an opportunity to search for the book when you told me to call."

"Oh really," there was a hint of amusement in their voice. "How on earth were you going to sneak in and then back out again without causing suspicion or alarm?"

"Getting in was easy," the blonde smirked into the phone. "I've been a friend of the Kirklands for centuries; Scotland invited me over to see Mon Lapin, surely you paid enough attention at the meeting to hear that?"

"Now that you mention it," they replied offhandedly. "How'd you manage to get out then? You hardly just stood up and declared your departure."

"Did you know," Francis chuckled wryly. "The quickest way out of the Britannian household without looking suspicious, is to insult their mother?"

"Really, you went that low?"

"I had a jab at Arthur and Molly first…" a soft chuckle flitted across the line, jiggling like little bells in the Frenchman's ear.

"Let me guess," you could hear the smile in their voice. "A nice large bruise and a missing tooth for your troubles?"

"A very nice bruise," Francis grimaced, examining the purple blotch in his rearview mirror. "Three missing teeth, a couple more are wobbling or cracked and I think there's a hairline fracture splitting my jaw…"

"Oh," they hissed in sympathy. "You really pissed her off this time…"

"It was the easiest way out," France dismissed. "You're in a good mood tonight, what managed to break your bad mood?"

"Ah," they started, suddenly remembering the reason for the call. "I've got the sketchbook."

"Really," the blonde's eyes widened in surprise. "Where did you find it? I thought L'Ecosse had it locked away."

"It was on loan to Norvegia," the bell-like laugh sounded again. "I might have gotten into a scuffle with him and Danemarca, but you know who the winning man is!"

"You took out Norvège, Qu'est-ce que!"

"We have the book, Francis," their voice was alive with delight and anticipation. "England's out, his siblings in shambles, Norway shouldn't be a problem any longer and Canada is being well cared for: now all that's left is to deal with Scotia."

* * *

"Hey Norge, how're you holding up back there?"

The wild blonde cast a worried glance at the back seat of his hired car, noting the fact that Norway was laid across the bench seat, one arm covering his eyes, the other resting on his stomach. The smaller blonde hadn't been faring so well since his episode after the burglar had made off with Britannia's Sketchbook. Having decided that best thing to do was inform Scotland, the duo had boarded a jet to England. All throughout the flight however, the Norwegian had been feeling worse and worse. His chest had been clenching, his lungs felt like they were closing up sporadically, not to mention the nausea that had newly arisen.

"What's the matter, you feeling sick again?" Norway shook his head slowly in response, not trusting himself to move any faster. "Alright, just remember to tell me if you do. How's your chest; does it still hurt?"

"Like a bitch," he managed to push out, causing himself to cough painfully in the process. The fit ended quite quickly; Denmark took it as a sign of improvement, that and the fact that the Norwegian still had his dry sense of humor.

"It's going to be fine," the Dane smiled, speaking to assure himself more than his passenger. "We'll be at Arthur's soon. Everything is going to be fine…"

* * *

**A/N: So, looks like we're dancing with three plot lines at once, smooth. **

**I apologize for the ridiculous waiting period, but I've had some family issues come up and, well, real life has to come first, no matter how bad it sucks sometimes... I've recently moved house too, but I can't unpack properly yet because I don't have any furniture beyond a bed at the moment. XD **

**Some of you have questioned why I don't give translations at the end of my chapters where I dip into the nations' native language. For this story in particular, if I told you what language was being spoken, it'd give too much away... Usually, it's just because I'm too lazy or it's a random phrase or word that most Hetalians will know from having read too many stories with either France or Canada in them. **

**Anywho, review, complain about time, beat me with a stick, lick something you found in the park? If you have any thoughts on who the villains are (come on guys, it's pretty obvious now :P) either review or message because if more than one of you gets it right, I'm going to have to say the first person to guess. Anonymous reviews are allowed,**

**Simply. x x**


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Well, this is a lot bigger than I'd originally intended. 3,347 words to be precise. Let's hope it's worth it, huh? The weird thing is, I started to write this in a moment of caffeine and sugar - never did I think it'd get this far... Either way, chapter ten: away! **

**Enjoy.**

* * *

White_ walls, they're too bright, they hurt my eyes…_

_Garish florescent lighting throws the harsh glare across what I can only assume is a small room. My eyes grow accustomed to the brightness and I can see that I am indeed in a small, windowless room. _

_I begin to feel claustrophobic. _

_The room is stuffy and has a lingering smell of chemicals, making it difficult to breathe. There's a slow beeping somewhere from my left which at this point is only serving to irritate me. I try to get up, to get a better view of my new surroundings, but I can't move. Something is restraining me… my wrists, my ankles, even my neck; I'm completely helpless. I start to panic as I fight against the think leather straps that hold me down. The beeping gets louder, faster; my only thoughts, concerns, lay in getting myself free, getting away, and going home… I was meant to be meeting Arthur… _

"_Arthur!" I tried calling desperately, my voice cracking painfully. "Anybody? Hello?" The only response is my own voice echoing off the walls. I heard a door click open softly over to my left. I tried to look over, only to have a bulky machine block my view. _

"_Bon Soir Mr. Williams," a blonde woman tittered cheerfully; her bright blue eyes sparkled as she stepped into the small room. "My name is Melanie Gavotte; I'm your doctor." _

"_Doctor," I gasp with difficulty._

_Since when did I have a doctor? This entire situation wasn't making any sense and to be honest, I'm getting scared. I just want to go home. I want to apologize to Al; we both said some dirty things a couple weeks ago – neither one of us has made any move to reconcile with the other, so we haven't even spoken. I don't think I've ever missed my brother as much as I do now… _

"_Oh yes, silly me," she waved her hand dramatically, reminding me a lot of France… her accent, was she French? "You were caught up in a fight, you should've died Mon Cher." Yup, definitely French… _

"_Oh," I swallowed nervously. The last thing I wanted was getting harassed by some nosey nurse. "I guess it just lucky then." I swallowed dryly, my throat was really sore…_

"_You're more than lucky Mr. Williams," the corners of her mouth twisted into a lustful smirk. I felt myself pale at the sight of it. "You should be sufficiently dosed by now, let's see what makes you so special, hmm?" _

_Dosed, what?! She turned her back to me and I started to struggle. I couldn't move; my body felt like lead. No. No, no, no! Please, no… she turned back, scalpel in one hand, scissors in the other as she shot me a mockingly sympathetic look. _

"_Aw, poor thing," she simpered, striding over to my personal prison with a leisurely ease. "Don't you worry; you're in good hands now." _

"_No, please, no," I berated myself for the whimper in my voice as she snipped away the material of my pale hospital gown, despite knowing full well that I had every right to be terrified right now._

_That's when it hit me: I shouldn't be here. This woman isn't my doctor… What is she going to do to me? A glint of steel caught my attention. _

"_You might feel a slight pinch," she smiled sweetly as she lowered the blade towards my chest. _

"_No," I cried, willing my body to fight off whatever evil drug cocktail this psychopathic woman had pumped into me. "No, no, stop it!" she pulled the cool metal slowly down my chest, her eyes lighting up with glee as a scream tore its way through my lips, torturing my sore throat. _

"_Alfred!" I choked on the word, coppery liquid slowly pooling at the back of my throat. "Al… Alfred! Please… Alfred!" _

_Alfred!_

_**I'm trying Matt, I'm trying!**_

_Alfred, please!_

_**Just hang on, I'm coming!**_

_Al…_

_**Mattie, I'm so sorry…**_

* * *

"Alfred, wake up damn it!" the young blonde was startled out of his sleepy haze. His eyes snapped open, leaving him momentarily blind as he adjusted to the dim lighting surrounding him. He shot up, glancing about himself, breaths coming harsh and heavy as he tried to shake the remnants of his nightmare. He rubbed at his eyes wit the heel of his palm, trying to ignore the slight tremor wracking his broad shoulders. Calloused hands gripped the shivering appendages; a waft of cigarette smoke tickled his nostrils grounding his wandering mind.

"You're alright lad, focus on me," all Alfred could make out without Texas was a pale face and a shock of fiery hair, but the accent told him enough.

"Scotland," he muttered, his chest still heaving with each intake of air, his voice shaking slightly.

"Aye lad, I'm right here," he gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Mind telling me what just made you cack your knickers?"

"What," Alfred spluttered, trying to calm his erratic breathing. "I- it was nothing, I swear."

The Scotsman gave him a discerning glare. "Your chest is going like the clappers lad; something's got you riled up."

"It was just a bad dream," he huffed. "I hope…" he breathed out through the gush of air.

"You're worried about Mata, aren't you?"

"How do you manage to stay so calm?" the blonde gave him a weary smile. "I don't even know if he's okay right now and my mind has to go make up some evil fantasy world where he's being dissected by a mad doctor-lady."

"Years of war, mass murderers; once you go through something like the blitz, nothing tends to faze you." Alfred felt the steel frames of Texas being placed into his hands before the rustling of clothing told him his uncle had gotten up. "Coffee, I assume?"

"Black, two sugars," he wiped his eyes again before slipping Texas onto the bridge of his nose. With his sight restored, Alfred realized he'd fallen asleep on the sofa in the front room. He'd been watching a film to soothe his nerves after the eventful day he'd just shared with his family. Jesse had been winded by Molly during her fit of rage – he wondered if she and Patrick were back yet – he'd taken up the offer to sleep it off gratefully and Keith had been more than happy to help his little brother up the stairs, declaring that he too was feeling a little sleepy. Iain had settled Arthur back into his bed with Dylan; apparently the Welshman was beginning to perk up too. Seychelles had offered to stay in Arthur's room, giving Iain his first chance to relax in the past three days. He'd stayed in the lounge with the Scotsman, watching hero movies whilst his uncle dozed in Arthur's leather recliner. At some point after he'd nodded off however, the redhead must've woken up, because a thick blue blanket lay scrunched up on the floor and he hadn't been wearing his glasses.

He chuckled to himself. If the rest of the world ever saw the fierce Celtic nation acting so caring, he'd have to go on a massive killing spree before he'd manage to salvage his reputation.

* * *

Alfred sauntered into the kitchen, his goofy grin widening at the beloved smell of fresh ground bean coffee as the coffee maker beeped, signaling the end of its preparation cycle.

"Perfect timing," the redhead grinned, ash dropping from the end of his cigarette as he set two mugs on the counter, pouring the black liquid into each. "There you are lad."

"Thanks," he took a sip, sighing contentedly as the hot liquid slipped down his throat. "I… I'm sorry if I woke you up."

"You're alright lad," the Scotsman dismissed. "I was up anyway."

"What, why were you…" he glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall. "It's 3:45; why the hell were you already awake?"

"Insomnia," Iain shrugged, rolling another cigarette. "You still smoke?"

"I'm good thanks," he smiled at the gesture; Scotland didn't share tobacco with just anybody. The two slipped into a peaceful silence as they sipped their drinks.

"So," the American breached the silence after a few more minutes. "Do you know if Arthur still plays?"

"You what lad?" Iain asked, as if pulled from deep thought. "Sorry, miles away…"

"I said does Arthur still play," the blonde repeated. "He used to love playing music when Mattie and I were little… but I've never heard a note from him since; I just wondered…"

"I'm not too sure myself there," the Scotsman mused, scratching the red whiskers starting to sprout on his chin. "I've not really-" he was cut off by a knock at the front door.

"I'll get it," Al leapt up from his seat, Iain heard him open the door and start to speak. "Hiya, what the… oof!" the redhead grinned as an image of the petite Celt sprung to mind.

"Hey Molls," he greeted as she leveled with the doorway. "You feel better now?" she glanced down at her delicate, bloodstained hands, cast a look over her shoulder and shrugged.

"I guess so," she stated offhandedly, fixing her grip on the white stick in her hand.

"What you got there," he motioned towards the stick.

"A stag," a small smile crept onto her lips. "A big one; figured we'd have a stew tonight."

"I'll skin it, but you're cooking it," he downed his coffee, stubbing his dog end in the bottom of the mug. "Where's Yankee doodle, you run him down with dinner?" a loud crack sounded from outside.

"He went out to play," Molly sighed, dropping the stag's antler before walking away from the carcass towards the stairs. "Well, night!"

"Hey," Iain strode across the room, glaring down the hall at his sister. "You just going to leave this here?" he gave the bloodied beast at his feet a little kick to emphasize his point.

Molly paused, contemplating her answer. "Yup,"

"Why?"

"Because fuck you, that's why," she started off back up the stairs again.

"Hey Molls," Iain lounged against the door frame to watch the retreating figure.

"What," she shot back, not even looking at him.

"All's well," he smirked nostalgically. "What's say we have a jam later? Might help lighten the mood, you know?"

"Yeah," she said softly after a slight pause; Iain could hear the smile in her voice. "That'd be nice…"

* * *

After being shoved and run over by a deer, Alfred had wandered out the front door, over to where his northern Irish uncle was snapping one of the antlers off of his own catch.

"Hey, Alfie," the bubbly Celt called. "Come here a sec, would you?"

"What do you want," the blonde smiled at his uncle's childish mannerisms as he stood back, glaring at the stag. "How the hell did you and Molly kill these anyway?"

"What? Oh, it's easy really, just break their neck," he shrugged before getting back to business. "Now, do you think you could help me snap off the antler?"

"Sure, but why?"

"Just something we used to do as kids," he smiled. "Just stand on its head for me?" Alfred gave him a weird look; what was he planning to do? The stag was a truly magnificent beast: strong, powerful muscles lay prominent under the sleek chestnut fur even after death; chocolate eyes, frozen in fear, gazed accusingly at the American. He stood on the head, feeling a twinge of disgust as he felt the flesh shift beneath his weight – why was he doing this? The auburn haired male flashed a cheery smile before he jumped on the antler, using his body weight to snap the bone appendage clean at the base. A sharp crack shattered the silence of the early morning. Alfred stepped off the deer quickly, moving away from the beast and his uncle with a sense of rising nausea. Patrick stooped to pick up the broken bone stick, turning to Alfred as he wielded it like a sword.

"You wanna break the other one too?" he smiled like nothing was wrong; like he hadn't just willfully mutilated the body of an animal. Regardless of how uncouth the Frenchman had been yesterday evening, Alfred was starting to see what he meant about the Kirklands being savage, and Arthur had had the gall to call him uncultured during the Revolution... Although, in all fairness, when you're raised feral…

"I… I'm good thanks," he answered softly.

"Suit yourself," Patrick shrugged as he went back to playing with the horn. "Alba! On guard?" the Irishman waved his bone lance through the air, taunting his brother as he wandered outside.

"Really Paddy," the redhead smiled playfully. "You still think you stand a chance?" he snapped off the deer's other antler, getting comfortable with the way it felt in his grip before leaping into action. Alfred knew that violence wise, his hands were no cleaner than the rest of the nations, but the sound of snapping bone still made him cringe. Arthur and his brothers wouldn't see a problem with what they were doing right now – it's like children pulling wings off of butterflies: a game. This is how they'd grown up, how they'd survived at the beginning of nationhood, when there was no one to care for them… Alfred suddenly felt a swell of gratitude towards Arthur for taking him under his wing whilst he developed as a society. He brought his attention back to the two Celts; he had to admit, watching the pair of them playing with pretend swords was quite amusing, even if it was four in the morning and their toys were made of bone. He settled himself against the front of the house, listening to the antlers clack together, like watching moose fighting for a mate…

"Um… Guys," Alfred's brow furrowed as a large black car rolled down the gravel driveway of Kirkland Manor. "Guys, we have visitors!"

"Who the fuck…" Iain's shoulders tensed instantly, the antler he'd just been playing with becoming a potential weapon if necessary. "Get out the car; what do you want?!"

"Wait, wait, wait," a lanky blonde called, hands up in surrender. "I come in peace!"

"Denmark," Alfred stared in confusion at the Nordic nation. "What are you doing here at a time like this?"

"Something important," Iain dropped his weapon, opting to head for the car. "What's wrong, you'd never come uninvited without a damn good reason."

"It's Norge," the scruffy blonde motioned towards the back of the car. "Some lunatic broke into Norge's study and attacked us. They did something to him before they left; he's been getting worse since…" Iain surveyed the young nation curled into a tiny ball across the back seats. The usually pale nation looked like ghost, sweat glistened on his forehead as he shook slightly, and his eyes clenched shut.

"Bring him inside," Iain commanded before marching back to the house, calling Patrick to follow in his wake.

* * *

"Lay him on the sofa," Patrick directed as Denmark staggered into the house, his arms full of Norway. "Alba will be back in a moment."

"Alright, what happened," Iain jumped straight to the point as he reentered the room taking a drag of a fresh cigarette as the blonde got his friend settled. "Who did this?"

"I don't know who did it," the Dane explained. "But I know they cast a spell… I think. I'm not really a spells and potions sort of guy – that's Norge…"

"Makes sense," the Scotsman mused, checking the Norwegian over with a critical eye; the small blonde whimpered softly at his touch. "Can you remember what they said; when they were casting what you think is the spell they used?"

"It sounded weird," Matthias started to pace, running his shaky hands through his unruly hair as he struggled to remember. "Like… Sue… folk, ah… termini ya tata? Gah! I can't remember, but it was something like that…"

"Sue folk…" His face turned grim, impressive crimson brows knitting together. "Did they have an accent?"

"I think it was eastern European, why?" Fear flashed through the Dane's eyes as Norway's breathing hitched. "Why is that important? Iain, what's going on?"

"Will you calm the fuck down," Iain growled irritably, not even bothering to shift his gaze from his new charge. "How long has he been like this?"

"It took us about two and a half hours to get here," the Dane offered, too preoccupied by Norway's deterioration to think straight. "We got a plane from Oslo and I drove us from Heathrow."

"Alfred," Iain bellowed his nephew's name, causing the younger blonde to sound a rather undignified squeak before he sidled into the room. "Take Matthias, give him some coffee, he's had a long night."

"Alright," he dashed into the lounge, grabbing the empty bowl that had earlier held his popcorn. "Do you want anything?"

"Not right now," he waved him off. "I'll send Paddy if I do, now beat it."

"Ok," Alfred turned to the taller blonde. "Come on, kitchen's this way."

"What, no," Matthias looked scathingly at the younger nation. "I'm not leaving Norge's side."

"Matthias," Iain spoke slowly, still checking Norway for any physical damage. "Get out."

"I'm not leaving,"

"Dude, there's no point arguing," Alfred tugged at the Dane's sleeve, urging him to follow. "C'mon, he'll be fine."

"No," Matthias swung his arm up, shaking Alfred's grip on his sleeve and striking the younger blonde's cheek at the same time; a solid smack echoed in the quiet room. Alfred gave a small yelp of surprise.

"Alfie," Patrick called, leaning over the back of the sofa. "Are you ok?"

"I'm staying right here until Norge is better," Denmark protested defiantly.

"You will do as you're fucking told, or I will personally throw your ass out of this house," Iain growled, finally stand to face the Dane, his voice almost as poisonous as his toxic green eyes.

"You can't make me…" he started only to have the Scotsman cut him short with a hand grabbing the front of his shirt.

"What does he mean to you," Iain asked bluntly, stubbing his cigarette between his fingers before dropping it in a nearby bin.

"Norge," Matthias looked slightly taken aback by the question but answered it nevertheless. "He's like a brother."

"Now," anger danced in those emerald orbs, like tiny flames consuming the Dane's willpower. "Do you want him to die?"

"What," he spluttered. Iain was so close he could smell the stale tobacco on his breath.

"Do you want him to die," Iain shouted, his rage flaring. Norway convulsed on the sofa behind him, adding to the urgency of the situation. "Well, do you?"

"O-of course not," Matthias' determination crumbled at the thought of his friend, his brother, not making it to sunrise. "Why, how could you even think…?"

"Then do as you're fucking told," the redhead snarled quietly; Matthias tried to shy away from his poisonous glare, stopped by the hand gripping his shirt. "Get out of here, go to the kitchen with Alfred, have a cup of coffee and apologize your ass off to that lad for smacking him. You will be informed when all is well now; the longer you stand there making a fuss, the longer he has to wait. Much longer and you'll have the joy of figuring out what to do with Norway when it no longer has a personification. My house, my rules, if you want to stay, you will obey; is this clear?"

"Crystal," Matthias whispered, hating how small his voice sounded.

"Alba," Patrick's voice rose cautiously from behind the sofa.

"What is it Pad," the Scotsman's eyes still bored into the man in his grasp, making the ex-Viking squirm. "It'd better be important."

"It is," the Irishman's voice oozed anxiety. "It-it's not good, but it's important, it's…"

"Paddy, will you spit it out," Iain turned back to his brother, releasing the now flustered Dane. "What is it?"

The usually bubbly man looked almost as pale as the whimpering nation sprawled before him; his fingertips were dusted with a shimmering gold powder.

"Patrick?"

"Hi-his amulet broke…"

* * *

**A/N: Thoughts? Silverheartlugia2000 was blessed with the joy of listening to me panic over the length of this chapter, so thanks for that! You're fabulous and our conversation got so off topic it's amazing! =D **

**Thanks to everyone who has reviewed, followed, favorited or even just read this. **

**So guys, what's an amulet and why is it so important? You'll have to stay tuned if you want t find out!**

**Simply. x x x**


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: Sorry about the wait, I couldn't quite get this finished before I went on holiday on Monday. **

**Good Lord, this took some doing! I'm now including a translation guide at the bottom of each chapter!**

**Enjoy.**

* * *

"Hi-his amulet broke…"

"It what," Iain was back by the sofa instantly, examining the glittering powder on his younger brother's hand.

"It just crumbled," he explained quickly. "He was getting upset by all the yelling; I was calming him down when my fingers brushed his cross and it just crumbled into powder!"

"How much of it is left," he trained his gaze back on the nation in question.

"Most of it," he tried to wipe the offending residue off his hands. "Only one of the arms fell apart."

"What are you talking about," Denmark tried to approach the two Celts, only to be verbally shunned.

"I thought I told you to bugger off," Iain rounded on the blonde once more. "Take the door, or pick a window - either way, you're leaving."

"What's going on," Matthias tried, hysteria verging. "Why does it matter that his clip broke, Iain?" The redhead gave a heavy sigh as he grabbed the shoulder of Matthias' shirt, dragging him to the door.

"I told you: fuck off," he growled, a snarl of irritation flashing his cat-like fangs. "Apologize, coffee, patience." With that, he spun the Dane around and booted him in the rear, sending the lanky nation sprawling across the floor. Iain shut the heavy wooden door quickly behind him, ramming the deadbolt in place before Matthias could try to force his way back into the lounge. Why Arthur had deadbolts _inside_ his house was anybody's guess, but they'd become both a blessing and an annoyance in one fell swoop. The Dane leapt back onto his feet and started to hammer against the door.

"Iain, let me in damn it," he snarled in frustration as the solid oak door stood unfazed, almost mocking his feeble attempts to get back into the room.

"It's no use," came a calm voice from across the hall; Matthias looked up to see America sat at the kitchen table, a large red mark covering his cheek as he sipped his second cup of coffee. "No matter how much you try, he's not going to let you back in before he's ready. He probably can't even hear you through that door… Coffee pot's still warm if you want some."

Matthias reluctantly left the door, having to admit defeat to the Scotsman. He sauntered over to the coffee maker and poured a mug of the bitter black liquid before he joined Alfred at the table. He took a sip and they fell into silence for a moment.

"…I'm sorry," the Dane finally muttered, staring at the dark depths of his drink. "I don't know what I was thinking in there, I just…"

"It's alright dude," Alfred smiled sadly. "I know how you feel, so it's ok."

"What," the older blonde looked up, confusion plain across his tired features. "What do you mean?"

"You're worried about Norway," he stated simply. "You're overwhelmed and you're still not sure if he's going to be alright, but at least you know where he is…" his voice caught slightly and he mentally berated himself for letting his fatigue joyride with his emotions.

"He'll be fine buttercup," both blondes' attention was pulled to the new voice from the doorway where the Republic of Ireland stood, now free from blood and dressed in a pair of emerald green shorts with a white vest top; her long orange hair had been pulled into two scruffy pigtails which cascaded over her narrow shoulders, a delicate silver chain hung around her neck. A pendant adorned the end of it, but it lay hidden somewhere within her ample bust. "You know Mata's coming home safe and sound; he always does and so do you."

"I know, but I still worry," the American smiled gently.

"Don't we all," she muttered, ruffling her nephew's already messy hair. "Hey, Alfie, do you know where Alba put my deer?"

"He left it in the middle of the kitchen," Alfred informed, pausing to take a sip of his now lukewarm coffee. "He was in the way, so I stood him in the pantry."

"Thank you," she chirped, skipping towards the far end of the large kitchen.

"Deer," Matthias raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. "Why does she have a deer?"

"She brought it back for dinner," the Dane gave a skeptical look. "Bare hands dude, bare hands…"

"Er du seriøs," his frown deepened. "She's like 5'4" and can't weight more then 110 pounds; 50 kilos, there's no way…"

"So," Molly interrupted the blonde duo once more, this time dragging her kill behind her.

"Told you," Al quickly whispered across the table, giving the stunned Dane an all-knowing look.

"What brings the mighty King of Scandinavia to our secluded little island," she asked, ignoring the astounded stare she was getting from the Dane as she settled herself down on her deer like it was a chair. "Looking like a week of wet Wednesdays no less."

"Norge is in trouble," Matthias rubbed his tired eyes, feeling mixed emotions rising up in them once more. "Someone cast a spell or a jinx or some of that bullshit on him… If I didn't know Iain, I…"

"You got him here alright, didn't you," Molly asked, fiddling with her hair; Matthias nodded. "Then he's going to be fine, no matter what was done to him, so long as his amulet stays in tact, Alba will set him right."

"What," the Dane's entire body wound up like a spring. "What if it's broken? What if it crumbles away?"

"Then we're running out of time," she stated simply. "Whatever the spell was meant to do is happening, but slower than the caster intended." Denmark opened his mouth to protest when the door to the lounge opened quickly to reveal a flustered looking Irishman with a grim expression. "Tuaisceart, what's wrong?"

"Someone tried to double tap Norway," Patrick explained, striding into the kitchen with a rare seen authority as he began to rummage through the drawers and cupboards. "_Sufoca_ and _Termina viata ta_…"

"Romania?" she exclaimed in disbelief.

"We think so," he muttered. "Figuring out who is not the first of our concerns right now."

"How the hell has Lulu hung on this long fighting a tap like that?" Molly glanced over at Denmark, noting the ashen hue that his face had taken. "How is he doing?"

"Not good," Patrick pulled his hand out of the drawer he was searching, a light sparkle danced across his eyes as he looked at the simple silver pendant he was now holding in his hand. "His amulet is crumbling as we speak, Alba and I are going to have to craft another one for him or he won't last long enough for us to remove the curses." Without another word, he fled from the room, slamming the heavy oak door behind him, leaving the kitchen and its three occupants in a stunned silence. Matthias grabbed fistfuls of his hair, dropping his forehead onto the table in defeat. Alfred gazed at the broken man with a sense of pity.

"…Well," Molly sighed tiredly. "I guess shit just got serious."

* * *

"Did you find it," Iain's gaze didn't falter from his charge.

"Yeah," Patrick dashed across the room, handing Iain the silver pendant. "Do you think he'll even last long enough for us to set the charm?" he glanced at Norway doubtfully. The usually emotionless nation lay on the soft cushions, breaths raspy and his face contorted in pain as his internal organs slowly shut down.

"I'm not sure right now," Iain admitted gravely. "But that sure as hell doesn't stop me from trying. Give me that pendant."

Patrick obediently handed his brother the delicate chain. Iain slipped the silver cross around his own neck before removing an ornate Celtic style cross and replacing it on Norway. Five small gems, inset into the weaving pattern of the cross, shone in a sudden display of incandescent glory as they each burst out in a rainbow performance.

"A-are you sure," Paddy asked nervously. "T-that's your amulet, y-you need that…"

"I've still got my studs," he shot the Irishman down quickly. "He needs that more than I do right now besides; it's easier to cast the charm like this." He positioned the silver cross over his heart, placing his one hand below the pendant and the other above and began to sing a simple melody. The metal started to emit a soft white light; it hummed and shook between the Scot's long fingers. Patrick placed his hands either side, forming a box to encase the cross, starting a countermelody to overlap the gentle tune his brother had already instigated. Both of their jaws set in fierce determination as every ounce of their concentration was poured into commanding their magic into the small silver cross. They couldn't afford a single second of distraction – a full charm like the one they were setting now would usually take the five of them to cast properly, but it didn't deter them.

The pendant's glow shifted from white to a pale mixture of blue and green; like the earth and sea battling within the confines of the Celts' hands.

* * *

"What is all of this shit with the amulets anyway," Alfred asked, finally voicing the question that had been plaguing the Dane and himself since the moment the trinkets had been mentioned. "Everybody keeps talking bout them, and we haven't got a clue as to what you're on about."

"Oh, of course," Molly slapped her hand against her forehead. "You guys don't know, do you?"

"Not in the slightest," he smiled; Matthias just grunted into his arms. "Care to explain?"

"Right, well," she shifted her weight on her deer, getting comfortable. "Let's start with what they actually are. Amulets are small trinkets or wearable items that wouldn't look out of place in everyday life. They can be anything from earrings to belt buckles, necklaces or rings; some are even cast onto the body itself, but those are complex and carry a shed load of risks. Anyway, the idea behind them is to protect the wearer from any magical harm, or act as a crutch when they are hurt - this is why you generally only hear of magicians and spell casters wearing them. Depending of the strength of the wearer and the original caster of the charm, amulets can block spells of sickness, misfortune, physical and psychological injury and, if the charm is strong enough, even spells intended to kill."

"If that's the case," Matthias interrupted, lifting his head to stare at the Irishwoman with watery blue eyes. "Why is this happening to Norge?"

"I'm getting to that," she responded calmly. "Spells can still pass through the barrier formed by the amulet if the attacking spell can overpower the charm. In this case, Romania used a double tap on Lulu; I'm assuming that alone, each of these spells wouldn't have been more than half as potent as the charm on his amulet, but when you combine them... The opposing spells are slowly eating away at his amulet and, since they were intended to kill, his life.

"Lulu had better be grateful that Artie was so adamant about him always wearing that clip, otherwise he wouldn't have made it out of the front door."

"You mean he didn't know he was being protected," Alfred stared in wonder.

"Completely oblivious," she was watching the Dane now with curious eyes. "We had to choose an item that he wouldn't mind wearing everyday; some people are fussy about wearing certain items for example. Arthur and Dylan are terrified of chains around their necks – think about why before you ask sweetie. Either way, due to this, Arthur opted for three silver studs in his left ear, they were remnants of his pirate days; Dylan prefers to wear a silver chain on his right wrist: you ever notice it before?"

"Once or twice," the American mused. "But I never realize Arthur still wore his earrings…"

"He let's his bangs cover them," Matthias interjected softly – so he had been listening… "I've noticed them a couple of times when he's been around Norge."

"Exactly," Molly started to fiddle with the silver chain around her neck. "The idea is to have them easy to hide or so nondescript that even if you do see them, you wouldn't think twice about them."

* * *

"Paddy, you're spent. With the charm cast, you're free to rest; I can handle the rest alone."

"I'll be fine," Patrick dismissed breathlessly. "Y… you're… not much… better off your…self… really."

"Tuaisceart, don't you dare argue with me," Iain gave the pale nation a firm look as Patrick slumped against the sofa, eyes barely staying open. "You know I'll be fine; you've done your part, your help is unnecessary now. Go take a nap."

Patrick sighed in resignation, hefting himself up off the floor. His legs gave a slight tremble as he slowly made his way across the room. He stumbled midway, catching his toes on the leg of Arthur's coffee table.

"Ah, you bastard!" he hissed, hopping on the spot a little as the throbbing in his foot died down. "Ah, whose bright idea was it to put tables in living rooms?"

"Go on," Iain chuckled. "Tell them Lukas will be fine, I've still got to remove the curses, but there's no doubt that he'll live now."

"You sure," he lingered, reluctant to leave the room.

"Certain, now beat it," he smirked. "Thanks for lending a hand, Pads."

He waited for the Irishman to close the door behind him before focusing solely on the Norwegian. Lukas' breath was coming easier now, although still slightly raspy. There was still a damp feel to his skin, but the underlying heat which radiated from it earlier had dropped greatly; a faint tremor still rattled through his limbs.

Iain settled on his knees beside the sofa, resting on hand on the blonde's brow and the other across his heart. Hands placed, he began to sing softly.

* * *

"So if Artie and Dylan both have amulets," Alfred ventured. "Who else does? I mean, I'm assuming that you, Patrick and Iain all have one, but whom else and what are they?"

"You're an inquisitive little bugger, you know that," she stretched like a cat, giving a soft yawn before continuing with her increasingly longwinded explanation. "Well, you're right when you say that all we Kirklands have an amulet. You know about Artie and Dill… Paddy and I have matching silver pendants." She lifted the chain, revealing the small Celtic cross hanging on the end. It shimmered in the gentle light of the slowly rising sun flittering through the kitchen windows, intricately engraved swirling patterns catching the light and throwing it across the room. A small emerald, perfectly round, sat proudly in the center of the cross, colors dancing in the dim morning light.

"It's beautiful," Matthias breathed, lifting his cheerless eyes to the ancient piece of jewelry. "How did you get that?"

"It was a gift from our mother," a nostalgic tone crept into her voice as she gazed wistfully at the silver cross. "All of us were born with a large portion of our mother's magic in us; most people think it's just a myth, but the fae were always looking to steal young children with strong magical connections to help produce their next round of offspring or as secret weapons in their wars."

"You want me to believe that fairies are real," the Dane shot spitefully. "Hvad en belastning af nosser!"

"Says the immortal being that spent a good century hunting for mermaids," Molly shot back, Alfred couldn't help but laugh at the Dane; gaping like a fish as he floundered for a response. "I don't know why you're chirping sunshine; you're just as bad with your bloody Thunderbird and your Wendigo."

"Hey," he defended himself, still chuckling. "I didn't question your fairies, did I? Besides, the Wendigo isn't even mine, it belongs to Matt."

"As I was saying," she continued, shooting a death glare at the older blonde. "Magical children are rare as it is - magical twins are rarer. When Paddy and I were born, our mother crafted these for us to protect us from their spells and, since they were made from silver and iron, the fae couldn't spirit us to their world either. I haven't removed this necklace in over 3000 years."

"So what about uncle Iain," watching his aunt fiddle with her necklace had his hands reaching for his military dog tags – he always wore them in honor of his soldiers.

"He inherited the most of our mother's magic," the trio glanced towards the living room door, curious as to how the mysterious process was going. "As such, he was very valuable to everyone who wanted to use magic as a weapon. He wears a cross similar to mine, but with five stones – you'll have to ask him if you want to know what they are, because I can't for the life of me recall them right now. But he also has to wear a silver chain on his left wrist and I think he has several iron studs in both ears – you'll never meet another soul who hates the child snatchers more than Alba." The living room door creaked open slowly, and once more, Patrick shuffled out into the kitchen. He looked worn and tired, his usual air of endless youth seemingly gone.

"Paddy," Molly was poised, ready to aid her twin should the need arise. "Is everything alright?"

"Norway is going to be fine," he muttered, collapsing into his sister's open arms. "We set the new charm, I'm just worn out is all; that thing's nearly as strong as ours now…"

"If he's alright," Matthias ventured, relief making his voice crack. "Can I go see him?"

"Not yet," Patrick mumbled sleepily, nestling deeper into his new pillow. "Iain's still removing the curses; I'm only out here because I won't be needed – I wouldn't be much help now anyway…"

"We were just talking about amulets," Molly informed, brushing her dainty fingers through her brother's scruffy auburn locks. "Alfie wanted to know who had one."

"Did you tell him about his dog tags yet?"

"No, actually," her gaze came back to the blondes at the table; Alfred was fixing the redheads with a reproachful stare. "Don't look at me in that tone of voice."

"What," Alfred exclaimed, both confused and amused; Patrick gave a light chuckle. "That doesn't make any sense! What was done to my tags?"

"They've been charmed to shield you from harm," Molly fixed him with a grin. "You used to have a little bracelet that Artie gave you when you were just a colony, but you refused to wear it after you left. When he realized that you religiously wear your tags, Artie had Mata pinch them long enough for the five of us to put a damn good charm on them; same for Mata and Keith too actually."

"You mean," he stared at the little metallic rectangles on his chain, both proudly inscribed with his name, rank and nationality. "These little things…"

"Aye," the twins chorused. "Every time you were hurt, they gave you enough support to get you out of the rough and into military or medical care." Alfred smiled at the united explanation, feeling a hint of longing with the absence of his own twin.

* * *

Scotland's chanting stayed steady as Norway began to stir. He brushed his fingers through the Norwegian's sweaty hair, catching the remnants of the once proud golden cross that had diligently adorned the left side of his head for centuries. Iain slipped the ruined ornament for the damp locks, giving it a sad look before tossing it onto the small table to the side of the sofa. His lips didn't stop moving the whole time. Lukas gave a small whine of discomfort; his eyebrows drew together as his eyelids began to twitch.

"You're ok lad," Iain muttered, stroking his charge's hair, incantation finished. His right hand stayed firmly planted on Lukas' chest, keeping him still should he start to struggle. "Keep still, stay calm you're in safe hands."

"No…" he whined, trying to curl in on himself. His breathing started to speed up again, shoulders shaking.

"Aye, you're alright," he hushed softly. "Calm down, you're fine, you're safe."

"Matthias," Lukas whimpered. "Matthias…"

"He's in the kitchen," Iain shifted his weight from his knees to the balls of his feet. "Can you open your eyes lad? Try for me."

"W-who…"

"Iain lad, Scotland…" Lukas' rapid breath wavered and dropped to a more docile speed as he registered the Scot before him. "That's good lad, nice and calm."

"M-my chest hurts…" misty blue eyes cracked open, lazily taking in the dimly lit lounge. "Where am I? What happened…?"

"You're in Arthur's house," Iain spoke gently, his long fingers still snaking through Lukas' fringe. "You were cursed in your house; Matthias brought you here – saved your life."

"I'm sorry…" Lukas whispered, tears welling up in his eyes. "I'm so s-sorry…"

"Hey, shush," Iain frowned – why was he apologizing; better yet, what for? "You've nothing to be sorry for."

"B-but you d-don't understand…" he insisted tearfully. "I lo-"

"I don't care lad," Iain sighed wearily. "Whatever it is, it can wait. Now, you need to rest." Iain stood to leave, merely intending to fetch the smaller nation a blanket – it wasn't exactly cold in here, but it would make him more comfortable. Lukas grabbed Iain's hand before he could walk away.

"Please don't leave me," he begged, his weak hold on Iain's wrist already slipping. "I don't want to be alone…" the Scotsman paused, assessing the tired man before him.

"Alright," he relented tiredly. He moved Lukas' upper body, making enough room for him to sit comfortably on the end of the sofa before laying the Scandinavian back down to rest on his lap. "There, now you'll know if I move." Lukas stared up at the redhead for a brief moment before snuggling down into his lap.

"Thank you…"

* * *

"Alfie, come here for a minute," Molly whispered, beckoning him over. "Keep an eye on Paddy; we tend to have weird dreams when we've overused our magic."

"Where are you going then," he asked softly, quickly adopting the same hushed tones. She glanced over to Denmark's slightly shaking form, slumped over the table. Alfred gave her a nod of understanding before relieving her of the lightly slumbering form of her brother. The Irishwoman stood silently, her bare feet hardly making a sound as she padded across the cold tile floor.

"You alright," she rested one hand on the Dane's muscular arm, rubbing the back of his shoulder with the other.

"He's okay…" he choked, lifting his shaggy head. His eyes looked drained, tears streamed down his cheeks as he gave a broken smile. "He's gonna be alright…"

"Aye, that he is," she pulled him into a firm hug, cradling his head against her shoulder as she rocked gently side to side; like a mother soothing her child, Alfred thought. "You're grand, you're grand." The usually proud Dane wrapped his arms around the petit woman, clutching the back of her top as sobs of relief tore their way out his throat.

"He's going to be alright…"

* * *

Come 6am, the house had fallen into a momentary silence. Molly Kirkland walked soundlessly through the seemingly empty house, bare feet gliding across the wood flooring. The news that Lukas would be fine was all Matthias needed to give in to his fatigue; Alfred had shown him to one of the spare rooms in Arthur's vast house before retiring to his own room for a quick nap before he set off to visit his brother in a few hours. She herself had just finished helping Paddy into his own bed before heading back to the lounge with a couple of spare blankets bundled up in her arms.

"You never knew when to quit, did you," she whispered to herself, smiling gently. Iain was sprawled across the end o the sofa, right hand behind his head, the left still tangled in the Norwegian's hair. His feet were propped up on the coffee table (Arthur would be furious if he found out – not that Iain ever cared) his mouth hung open as he snored gently. Lukas lay on his side, curling into the Scotsman's side as he gained some necessary and much deserved rest; the duo looked peaceful.

Molly leaned over Lukas, slipping the ancient cross from around his neck, returning it to its rightful place of adorning the Scotsman's broad chest. I gave another surge of light as the chain settled about his neck again.

"One day you'll learn," she murmured to them, carefully draping the blankets around them both. "You're nothing but a big old softie Alba."

* * *

**A/N: Phew! **

**Translation guide:**

**Er du seriøs: Are you serious (Danish)**

**Sufoca: Suffocate (Romanian)**

**Termina viata ta: End you life (Romanian)***

**Hvad en belastning af nosser!: What a load of bollocks! (Danish) ****_I'm British, what can I say?_**

_***Magic in my books is very say what you see - if you want someone to die, you command it of them in your native tongue. It makes sense really...**_

* * *

**Feedback? **

**Simply. x x x**


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: I can NOT apologize enough for how much I just let this chapter sit. I'm getting into my GCSE exams now, so I'm not sure when I'll be updating again.  
This is our longest chapter so far, enjoy!**

* * *

Four and a half hours, seven cups of coffee and a McDonald's breakfast bagel or two later, and Alfred and Keith found themselves stood in the bustling reception of the St. Meredith private hospital just 2 miles down the road from Kirkland Manor. The hospital was originally built by the Royal Family after they learnt of how reckless and foolhardy their personifications could be and, although intended for Nations' use, it was reformed and run as a private hospital for the well-paying members of the public such as politicians and celebrities when the British Isles refused to let anyone but family care for them whilst wounded.

The duo strode up to the front desk, dodging bored children and their frantic parents who tried endlessly to keep them reigned in.

"Excuse me," Alfred called, gaining the nurse's attention.

"Well hi there sweetie pie, how can I help you," she chirped cheerfully, a strong southern accent flavoring her sunny personality. "You're not hurt, I hope?"

"No, no," Alfred smiled, feeling the good humor almost radiating from the young blonde woman. "We're here to see our younger brother, Matthew Williams?"

"Oh, what happened to him, poor thing?" she pouted in pity as she logged into the desktop in front of her.

"Caught up in a street fight," Alfred admitted tersely, his jaw clenching at the though of Matt hooked up to all those wires.

"Aw," she hummed, genuine concern playing on her youthful features. "Tell me sweetie, you from the good old US of A by any chance?"

"Virginia's where I was born," he smiled. "But I belong to every state."

"Aw, that's adorable," she giggled. The computer gave a beep which quickly wiped away her mirth, replacing it with a confused pout. "How about you, green eyes?" she shot Keith a sly wink as she continued to tap at the keys.

"Nah, not me Shelia," he grinned. "Aussie through and through; just related to the nut," He cast a cheeky smirk at his American sibling which earned him a swift elbow to the ribs.

"American, Australian…" her fingers paused as she stopped to frown at them. "How are you…?"

"Adopted," they chorused.

"Our father used to travel the globe," Keith explained, using the same story that'd saved them many a time before. "Apparently a postcard wasn't enough of a souvenir."

"Is something wrong," Alfred noted the deepening frown on the nurse's face as the same dull beep kept emitting from the machine at her fingertips.

"Are you sure your brother was admitted into _this_ hospital?" the nurse asked cautiously, noting the restless way he wrung his hands.

"Certain," he leant over the countertop, trying to peer at the tiny writing on the screen. "I came here to visit him only two days ago."

"He's not on the system," she raised sincere hazel eyes to the duo at her desk. "I can call the head of the hospital. She's our new moderator, so I'm not sure if she'll know what's going on, but it's the best I can do."

"If you would," Keith pulled Alfred over to one side. "We'll be over here, if you could call us when she comes down?"

"Will do sir," she nodded, picking up the telephone and dialing the code to connect her with the management system.

"Just chill," Keith faced the American. "We can't have you flipping out, Matt's fine, I'm sure this is just a hiccup in the system."

"It'd better be," he dropped down into a spare seat.

"You cause a scene mate," he warned.

"What," the blonde scowled. "You tell Iggy on me, or maybe Uncle Iain?"

"Molly," he stated simply and the American's paled.

"You wouldn't,"

"Good morning gentlemen," a cheerful voice rang out behind them. "I hear you are having some trouble with the hospital computer system?" A tall woman with stunningly beautiful features and long flowing blonde hair strode across the busy waiting area, the sharp clack of her heels punctuating every step.

"Dr. Melanie Gavotte," she stopped on front of the duo with a little bounce, holding her right hand out professionally, her left clutched a plastic clipboard. "You can just call me Doc. What seems to be the issue?"

Alfred looked up, stood, turned on his heel and strode away from the waiting room towards the visitors' toilets. Both Keith and the doctor stared after him in shock and confusion.

"Ah," Keith fumbled. "I'm so sorry ma'am, just a minute?"

Keith gave the woman an apologetic smile before dashing after Alfred. He rounded the corner to catch the blonde pacing back and forth, muttering frantically under his breath.

"What the fuck is wrong with you," the brunette hissed in irritation. "You don't just bolt when someone introduces themselves."

Alfred simply ignored him in favor of muttering under his breath: "This can't be happening, it's not… I'm going mental…"

"What's not happening," Keith's frown turned into a smirk of realization. "… You did not just crack a fat."

"What," the blonde turned his gaze from the floor to stare at the southerner.

"I mean, I know she's a nice show and all," he carried on, a light snigger passing his upturned lips. "But I don't think it's worth a standing ovation."

"What," Alfred's eyes widen in shock as his mind slowly processed the crude hints. "Dude, that's just- no! It is so not like that!" He smacked the chuckling Aussie for the second time that morning and something told him it wouldn't be the last either at this rate.

"Then why'd you bail out," he folded his arms expectantly. Alfred glanced around the corner.

"This is going to sound crazy," he whispered quickly once he was satisfied that the Doctor wasn't within earshot. "But I know her from somewhere."

"Considering how long we've been about, I wouldn't be surprised if you met her granny or something."

"No," Alfred insisted. "I had a really weird dream about her last nigh-" Keith's crooked grin crept back onto his face and he gave a suggestive wiggle with his generous eyebrows.

"Will you fuck off," he hissed, resisting the urge to deck him.

"Alright, chill out," Keith raised his hands in surrender. "Can we go back now? You know, before she leaves?"

"Shit, right!"

Both nations strolled back into the hospital's main lobby, pleased to find that Dr. Gavotte was still stood there, albeit with a mildly annoyed expression on her face.

"All better, are we," she asked, sounding like a mother who'd just found her sons out after dark. "I don't mind helping you out, but please bear in mind that this is a hospital and I could suddenly become a very busy woman." Her French accent thickened in impatience.

"Sorry," Alfred grinned sheepishly, flashing his big blue puppy dog eyes at her. "I thought I'd felt nature calling, but it was only gas…"

"Real charming, you drongo," the brunette was still smirking. "Anyway, we came here to visit our little brother, but your computer is telling us he's not here."

"Have you stopped to think that perhaps you have the wrong place?" It was a fair question – for all she knew (and by now, probably assumed) the two young men stood before her could just be mad.

"I came in to visit him a few days ago," Alfred stated quietly. "Matthew Williams, room 646 on the third floor?"

"Matthew…" she muttered to herself, tapping away on her purple plastic clipboard. "Ah! The young politician – he came in with severe injuries from a mugging, correct?"

"Some thing like that," Alfred muttered.

"So where is he?" Keith cut in. "Why isn't he on the system?"

"The Canadian government heard of his condition and requested that he be flown to Canada immediately,"

"You can't move someone when they're that bad!" Alfred exclaimed; a protective anger burned in his eyes and it didn't go unmissed by either Keith or Gavotte.

"Trust me," she sighed. "I spent hours trying to convince them, but they threatened to accuse Britain of holding the international liaisons officer hostage… how does one claim such a title at the age of 19, I wonder?"

"Even so," the question stood ignored. "Why wasn't he on the system?"

"The government requested his exchange," she articulated slowly, as if she were speaking with a couple of dunces. "If word got out that they're treasuring a boy of his age, he'd become the easiest target in history."

"And you didn't even bother to call and tell his family?" Alfred was nearly shouting – he hated this woman.

"Are you Alfred," she shot the question at him. "Alfred Jones?"

"Y-yeah," his shoulders tensed in apprehension – where was she going with this? "How, why does it…?"

"I've a list of complaints about your antics," her gaze was focused on her clipboard again, but a sudden lust had started to shine in them. "You two must really be close if you'd come in here and start to cause a scene."

"We're twins," Alfred stated, as if that fact alone was enough. "What does this have to do with why no one in our family was informed of his transfer? Why didn't anyone bother to call?"

"There wasn't a name listed for 'Next of Kin', merely a list of people who may come to find him," Gavotte brushed him off; she seemed more interested in her clipboard, which was… beeping? "I've got a flood of patients coming in from a pile up on the A503 near SpringfieldPark, our conversation is finished. I suggest you go home gentlemen, unless there's anything you want me to take a look at?" she eyed Alfred almost hungrily.

"No, we're going now," Keith saw Alfred cringe away slightly at the look and slipped his arm around the blonde's shoulders, steering him towards the doors of the noisy waiting area. "Thank you for your time, we won't bother you again."

The duo broke out of the revolving glass doors into the crisp late morning sunshine. Despite the usually warm British weather, Alfred felt a light shiver trace down his back.

"You alright mate," Keith noted the pale hue his sibling had taken.

"That woman creeps me out," he muttered, making his way over to Iain's car, which was borrowed on the condition that he would castrate the pair of them if he found so much as a scratch or a McDonald's straw when they came back. "I'm going to try calling Mattie's government, see if they did call him back."

"Alright, I'll start the car," Keith got in the driver's side – he was used to driving on the 'wrong side' of the road. "It's bloody gorgeous today!"

"I know," Alfred climb into the passenger seat. "I've tried, but I can't connect."

"Just use mum's phone when we get back,"

* * *

When Alfred and Keith had left Kirkland Manor, the place had been almost dead; the only noises to be heard were the monstrous snores of Arthur and his brothers and Molly's gentle humming as she pottered about the kitchen. Now that they returned, there was an armchair on the front lawn, the living room's windows were shattered and Iain and Patrick were wrestling in the finely trimmed grass. The most surprising part of this as the fact that Dylan and Arthur were sat a few feet away, leaning up again the proud old oak Arthur had planted during the 15th century, laughing heartily as their elder siblings brawled.

"Hello there lads," Iain called cheerfully, securing the headlock he had on Patrick. "Lovely weather we're having!"

Keith walked over slowly, warily eyeing his rowdy uncles. "What are you guys doing?"

"Just having a little fun," Patrick choked, struggling against the Scotsman.

"Why's there a chair on the lawn," Alfred jogged over to the three of them. "What happened?"

"You'd better have that shit cleared up," Molly bellowed from the depths of the house. How she got her voice to such volumes was amazing and a complete mystery, but when she did, no one tended to argue.

"Yeah," both Celts smiled sheepishly as they disentangled themselves from one another.

"They pissed of Molly," Arthur chuckled, delighting in watching his elder siblings in trouble. "They've been terrorizing her all morning."

"So the chair…" Alfred ventured, gesturing towards the armchair.

"She threw it through the window," Dylan smiled.

"Right after she threatened to rip their cobbler's off," Arthur erupted into cheerful laughter once again. "You should know better, honestly!"

"We should really put the chair back," Paddy muttered thoughtfully, staring at Arthur's brown leather armchair. He sat in the grass, crossing his legs as Iain rocked back and forth, squatting on the balls of his feet.

"Do you think Molls has calmed down yet,"

"I'll go check," Keith offered, starting for the front door. "I'll see if I can't lighten her mood." He gave a cheeky wink as he opened the old wood door.

"Don't you dare piss her off anymore than she already is, you little shit-bag," Arthur shouted after him. "You get into a bull and cow, you're brown bread and you know it you cocky little berk!" Keith just shut the door behind himself, his mischievous laugh echoing in the late morning breeze.

"Um," Alfred joined his uncles in the grass, casting a cautious glance over his shoulder, he whispered. "Has Arthur gone mad?"

"What do you mean," Patrick smiled at him. "Keith will be fine; Molly has a soft spot for him."

"No, no, it's no that," he hissed quickly. "He's sat there talking gibberish; haven't you guys noticed?" The two Celts stared for a moment before burst into uproarious laughter, causing the blonde to turn a deep shade of crimson.

"What's so funny," he asked indignantly.

"Oh lad," Iain chuckled, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. "You're not half dense sometimes."

"Why are you still laughing," Alfred's brow drew into a frown as his uncles' hysterics continued. "Will you just stop already?!"

"Arthur," Iain called over to his youngest. Patrick was rolling around in the lawn, tears rolling down his face as he continued to laugh silently.

"What is it," Arthur called back. "What's wrong with you three; Paddy looks like he's going to pass out."

"Y-you've confused your wain," the redhead was slowly regaining his dignity. "He thinks you've gone mad."

"What?"

"You've gone Cockney again," Dylan pointed out; he leant against the tree, eyes closed as he relaxed in the unusually warm sunshine. "I reckon you're cream crackered if you're slipping into it without realizing."

"Bollocks," he sighed, leaning on Dylan's shoulder. "I could go for a quick snooze. Could you please sort Patrick?"

"Paddy," Iain leant over him; the ginger nation was still laughing noiselessly, gasping for air as he clutched his stomach. "Pads, come on, calm down, that's enough now."

"What's his problem," Alfred sulked, no longer looking like one of Spain's prized tomatoes, but clearly not over the fact that he had two men laughing at him.

"Giggle pin's stuck in the laughing shaft," Iain smirked as a look of confusion swept across the blonde's face again. "Come on Pads, sit up." He pulled the gangly Irishman into a sitting position, giving him a few slaps on the back as he choked on his seemingly unstoppable mirth. Finally, he managed to calm himself enough to speak again, but he still had a goofy grin plastered across his freckle-flecked face.

"I'm sorry Alfie," something told Alfred that he wasn't really, but he nodded anyway. "It's just, living on an island; you tend to forget how different you are from the rest of the world."

It was true really: sure, every nation is weird in its own way, but the traits were usually spread across a few neighboring countries or nations with a shared history. Britain however, was really left to itself for most of its years. A lot of the bizarre dialects and saying were unheard of around the rest of the globe – Alfred and Matthew had a rather strange experience the last time they'd gone to a pub in the "West Country" as Arthur had called it; they'd rather forget about the elderly gentleman who kept referring to them as "My Lover" and was infatuated with tractors.

As much as he'd hate to admit it, the simple statement had Alfred wondering just how the rest of the world saw him; if they were confused or offended by the things he saw as normal, or do they just tend to accept the fact that it was the way his people lived?

"Let's get this chair back inside, eh?"

* * *

"Scarlet Barnet," Keith called into the kitchen in a sing-song voice. "What you doing?"

"Debating whether I should smack you," Molly quipped, swiftly chopping vegetables. "What're you after?"

"Just conversation," he settled down at the table. "Don't suppose you've seen Jess this morning?"

"He went home," Molly stood her knife in the wooden chopping board, turning to face her nephew. "He says he's ever so sorry, but Wy didn't want to be on her own and someone needs to tend to his sheep. Not to mention it's only a matter of time before your government starts to wonder where you are."

"He just up and left while I'd gone walk-about," he looked dejectedly out of the window. "He didn't even leave a message…"

"Shelly left with him," Molly continued. "She got a call from her president – something about preparing for a festival."

"I think her independence celebrations are coming up," Keith fiddled with his fingers. "I think her islands all have a big celebration festival. So, what are you doing?"

"Just finishing off lunch for everyone," she turned back to her veggies. "Have the boys put the chair back yet?"

"I think so,"

"Wonderful," he could hear a slight smile in her voice now. "Could you nip up stairs and fetch Matthias and Lulu?"

"Who," his bushy brown brows bunched together.

"Denmark and Norway," she rolled her eyes, knife still moving at frightening speeds across the chopping board. "They should be in the spare room across from Artie's library."

"When did they get here," Keith stood up from the table, preparing to make his way up.

"Earlier this morning," Molly scrapped her chopped veggies into a large stewing pot. "Go tell them lunch is almost ready."

* * *

Keith dashed up to the first flight of stairs, down the hallway to the back of the house. This floor was devoted to guest bedrooms – four on the left and four on the right with the hallways making an 'H' shape. In the centre was the main body of Arthur's personal library, full of books he'd accumulated over the years. He had everything from ancient texts and personal diaries to the newest up and coming authors from all genres. The majority of the books on this level however, were purely for the pleasure of reading – fairytales, a large assortment of novels and a vast store of fantasy books.

Keith turned left and walked towards the back of the house. At the end of the hall, two dark wooden doors stood facing each other. The one on the right lead to Arthur's library – the only floor of it that the blonde didn't mind people wandering through anyway – the one on the left lead to one of the guest rooms. This is the room Kirkland Manor's impromptu guests were staying. He gave a quick rap on the door with his knuckles.

"You in there mate," he called through the door. "Open up."

The heavy door creaked open to reveal a disheveled Denmark. "Yeah…"

"Lunch pal," the brunette grinned. "Freshen up and let's get moving!"

"I…," Denmark shuffled his feet awkwardly. "I, um…"

"Come on," Keith leant against the door frame, arms crossed impatiently. "Spit it out."

"The idiot is trying to tell you we have no clothes here," Norway stated calmly, pushing past the lanky blonde to meet Keith in the doorway. "Although in fairness, I doubt he really had time…"

"Have you gone bonkers," he let out an obnoxious laugh. "Don't you know Iggy always keeps spare clothes here?"

"What do you-?"

"There's a reason you're in this room," he cut them off again. "Check the wardrobe – it's hidden in the wall at the back of the room." Matthias gave the scruffy nation an odd look before striding to the rearmost wall. After some quick inspection (and a few not-so-subtle hints for the Aussie) Matthias managed to open the door to reveal a rack filled with an assortment of shirts, tops, jeans, dress trousers and even underwear, shoes and accessories. All three nations gave a whistle of amazement.

"You must stay here quiet often," Keith contemplated. "Well, hurry up. I want you down ASAP and don't even think of skipping; Molly will force-feed you if she has to."

* * *

At the bottom of the stairs, Keith was met with a rare-heard sound. Peeking through the front door, he saw Molly, dressed in a pair of denim shorts (and damn were they short!) with a black t-shirt, setting up a large checkered picnic blanket. Arthur and Dylan were still slumped against the tree, Arthur clad in green skinny jeans and an oversized shirt emblazoned with the Union Jack; Dylan wore black jeans and a white t-shirt with a red dragon on the front. He wasn't sure what it was at, but the three of them laughed heartily – perhaps they were just enjoying each other's company.

"Just who we were looking for," Keith nearly jumped out of his skin at the sudden appearance of his two oldest uncles. "You want to give us a hand?" Iain and Patrick stood just behind him in knee length shorts, armed with bulky water guns and devious grins that could only belong to a mass murderer or an older sibling with a scheme. He tried not to stare at the plethora of scars that laced Iain's arms and chest, but his lack of a shirt made it difficult.

"Is Al still outside," they nodded and the brunette grinned, taking a gun from them. "I'm in."

"I hope you're ready to get soaked then," Patrick chuckled.

"What?"

"Charge," Iain bellowed, kicking the door open and rushing the people in the front yard.

The trio launched into the sunlit yard, firing water as they went. Molly, being the closest to the door, as drenched in an instant. She gave a shriek of surprise before she gave a peal of joy as her brothers relentlessly continued their attack.

"Here she comes," Iain yelled as Molly gave a twisted smirk. Not a second later, she clapped her hands together, sending a large wave of water flying across the grass, sweeping all three nations off their feet. Keith now wished he'd followed his uncles in foregoing footwear before their summer suicide mission.

"We surrender," the Celts laughed in unison, raising their hands in defeat.

"What the hell was that," Keith spluttered. "It feels like I just wiped out on a breaker."

"Molly's a nature mage," Iain grinned, not bothering to get up of the wet grass. "Her strongest powers involve earth, air, fire and water. We could've told you before we charged, but where's the fun it that?"

"What do you mean," the soggy southerner pulled himself out of the small Molly-made pond.

"It means if you like staying dry buttercup," the petite woman smiled. "Don't try to jump me with a water pistol."

"Sucker," Alfred laughed, pointing at Keith. "You totally just got thrashed by a girl."

"Keith sweetie," she motioned for him to hand her the gun. "Let's show him what a girl can do, eh?"

"You what," the blonde paled as his aunt took the water gun, his uncles getting to their feet behind her. "Y-you wouldn't…"

"Run,"

Alfred bolted, the Celtic trio hot on his heels, already firing jets of water after him. They quickly disappeared around the back of the house, although their manic laughter could still be heard.

"What's with all the noise?"

"Lukas, Matthias, you're up," Arthur called in delight. "Molly told me what happened. How are you feeling?"

"Not great," the Norwegian muttered, sitting near Arthur on the edge of Molly's thick blanket. "But it's still a lot better than I did last night."

"I can imagine," he gave a rare, soft smile – those were now usually reserved for his 'children' whenever they were ill or upset. "I see you finally found the wardrobe I set up for you. I hope the clothes were alright."

"They were perfect," Matthias interjected, flopping down next to Lukas. "How did you know not only our sizes, but the style of clothing we like to wear too?"

"I like to people watch," it was true. If you paid enough attention, anyone could see that during their free time, the Nordics had a tendency to wear tight jeans – much like Arthur and his brothers – and tops with funky, witty or amusing phrases and pictures on them. They'd then throw on a mixture of accessories to make it a little more unique – Arthur, if he recalled properly, thought it was referred to as 'Hipster'. Despite the colorful array of clothing, Norway had opted for black jeans and a navy blue knitted cardigan despite the heat.

Give me punk fashion any day, he thought, remembering how bizarre some of the Dane's clothing could get.

"What was that mate," Keith's loud jeer cut through the quite conversation the three blondes were having. "Thrashed by a _girl_? Ain't she Bonza?"

The three Celts seemed to have finally run out of water – most of it was in Alfred's shirt, Arthur was sure – they had come back to the front lawn and allowed Alfred to wring out his shirt.

"Oh, hey Lulu," the twins smiled, shouldering their now empty water pistols. "See you're feeling better then."

"I really wish you wouldn't do that," Lukas muttered softly, casting a light glare at the Celts. "It really creeps me out…"

"We know," they chorused, dropping down next to the lightly slumbering Wales - seems he'd dozed off whilst Arthur and Lukas were chatting. "We like to watch you squirm."

"Come on," Keith sat next to Molly, nudging the ginger playfully. "That's just cruel."

"They are cruel," Alfred joined the group, tossing his sodden shirt and shoes in a pile with Keith's ruined clothing. "That's why we love them." He flashed his million-watt smile at the Irish duo.

"One of these days, you're getting a slap," Molly scowled playfully.

"Sod your back and forth," Iain interrupted loudly, laying in the grass in the sunshine. "I thought we came down for lunch?"

* * *

Lunch came and went in the same good humor as the small water war before hand. Arthur and Dylan were benefiting from the fresh air and the light atmosphere; Lukas looked like he was getting some color back in his cheeks too. The afternoon was enough to break the tension of the past few days, which was exactly what everyone needed. Iain smiled at all the soothing atmosphere as everyone settled down into the grass, enjoying the warm sunlight.

He came to lean against the tree beside Arthur, slipping his hand into his pocket; he pulled out a small wooden flute. He placed it to his lips, letting a sweet, simple tune fall from the pipe; Molly came to rest her head on the Scotsman's thigh, enjoying the rare moment of closeness - she'd always been soothed by her older brother's playing. She started to hum along gently. He felt Arthur rest his head against his shoulder, relaxing into the soft tune. Alfred had fallen asleep on the Englishman's lap a short while ago, having been gently persuaded after complaining of being tired. A glance to the other side of the blanket showed Patrick and Keith having a light chat with the Nordic duo, Paddy probably wanting to make sure that they were both doing alright after their scare earlier that day.

The song came to an end, the only sound afterwards being the soft whisper of the wind. Alfred gave a small whimper in his sleep.

"Mattie…"

That's how his nightmare started last night, Iain thought warily.  
"Shush, it's alright," Arthur was quick to soothe him, gently petting his hair as his paternal instincts took wing. "He's okay poppet, just sleep."

Molly gave a light tug on Iain's trouser leg, casting him a silent request to carry on playing. He raised the flute back up to his lips, starting another tune. Molly started to sing along softly, her beautiful voice filling the afternoon air.

"Away to the westward, I'm longing to be," it was an old favorite for the Scotsman; it brought him solace quite often. "Where the beauties of heaven unfold by the sea…"

Alfred calmed down, leaving the flute and voice to float through the air unhindered.

* * *

**A/N: Yeah, thoughts?**

**Translations:**

**Crack a fat: Aussie slang for get an erection.**

**Bull and cow: Row (Cockney Rhyming)**

**Brown bread: Dead (Cockney Rhyming)**

**Berk: Cunt (Cockney Rhyming - Berkly hunt)**

**Cream crackered: Knackered/tired. (Cockney Rhyming)**

**Wain: child (Scottish)**

**Scarlet Barnet: Barnet fair: hair (Cockney Rhyming) He's calling her a redhead. **

**Bonza: great/amazing/brilliant ect. (Aussie slang)**

* * *

**Alfred being born in Virginia - this was the first state out of the official 50, so this is technically where he came to be.**

**Giggle pin's stuck in the laughing shaft: My dad's said this to me a lot - it really just means that you can't stop laughing. **

**People in the West Country really are like that... Half of my family's from Cornwall, so... Hello my lover X3 **

**Seychelles' independence is celebrated on June 29th. **

**The song at the end is "The dark island" By The Alexander Brothers. My grandmother used to sing it to my dad, so it seemed befitting were it is. **

* * *

**And so alas, the plot thickens. Will Al freak out again? How will Denmark and Norway explain about the book? Will they ever manage to connect the dots that are lining up so neatly in front of them? **

**Feel free to drop a line, even if you just want to tell me off for leaving this so long. Anything is appreciated. **

**Thanks for sticking with this,**

**Simply. x**


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